lazed up with startling suddenness. On the last afternoon
of her life, when she had lain quiet for hours, she suddenly began to
utter the names of the women who had worked with her, as if in a final
roll-call. Many of them had preceded her into the next world; others
were still splendidly active in the work she was laying down. But young
or old, living or dead, they all seemed to file past her dying eyes that
day in an endless, shadowy review, and as they went by she spoke to each
of them.

Not all the names she mentioned were known in suffrage ranks; some of
these women lived only in the heart of Susan B. Anthony, and now, for
the last time, she was thanking them for what they had done. Here was
one who, at a moment of special need, had given her small savings; here
was another who had won valuable recruits to the Cause; this one had
written a strong editorial; that one had made a stirring speech. In
these final hours it seemed that not a single sacrifice or service,
however small, had been forgotten by the dying leader. Last of all,
she spoke to the women who had been on her board and had stood by her
loyally so long--Rachel Foster Avery, Alice Stone Blackwell, Carrie
Chapman Catt, Mrs. Upton, Laura Clay, and others. Then, after lying in
silence for a long time with her cheek on my hand, she murmured: "They
are still passing before me--face after face, hundreds and hundreds of
them, representing all the efforts of fifty years. I know how hard they
have worked I know the sacrifices they have made. But it has all been
worth while!"

Just before she lapsed into unconsciousness she seemed restless and
anxious to say something, searching my face with her dimming eyes.

"Do you want me to repeat my promise?" I asked, for she had already made
me do so several times. She made a sign of assent, and I gave her the
assurance she desired. As I did so she raised my hand to her lips and
kissed it--her last conscious action. For more than thirty hours after
that I knelt by her side, but though she clung to my hand until her own
hand grew cold, she did not speak again.

She had told me over and over how much our long friendship and
association had meant to her, and the comfort I had given her. But
whatever I may have been to her, it was as nothing compared with what
she was to me. Kneeling close to her as she passed away, I knew that
I would have given her a dozen lives had I had them, and endured
a thousand times more hardship t