e ought to stand closer together. You and
I have differed as all earnest souls must. I trust each always believed
the other to be true in spirit. I know I always did, touching yourself.
You are good to assure me you have had the same faith in me, and I hope
when you reach threescore and ten, some kind friend will cheer you with
equally generous and welcome words."

The last entry in the diary for 1881 says: "The year closes down on a
wilderness of work, a swamp of letters and papers almost hopeless." She
attacked it, however, with that sublime courage which was ever her
strongest characteristic, and at the end of the first week of the new
year the heaviest part of the burden was lifted from her shoulders by
the receipt of this letter from Mr. Phillips:

DEAR SUSAN: Our friend Mrs. Eliza Eddy, Francis Jackson's daughter,
died a week ago Thursday. At her request, I made her will some
weeks before. Her man of business, devoted to her for twenty-five
years, Mr. C. R. Ransom (ex-president of one of our banks) is the
executor. He and I were present and consulted, and we know all her
intentions and wishes from long talks with her in years gone by.
After making various bequests, she ordered the remainder divided
equally between you and Lucy Stone. There is no question whatever
that your portion will be $25,000 or $28,000. I advised her, in
order to avoid all lawyers, to give this sum to you outright, with
no responsibility to any one or any court, only "requesting you to
use it for the advancement of the woman's cause."

After all the years of toil without financial recompense, of struggling
to accomplish her work with wholly insufficient means, of depending from
month to month on the few dollars which could be gathered in, Miss
Anthony's joy and gratitude scarcely could find expression in words. She
answered at once:

Your most surprising letter reached me last evening. How worthy the
daughter of Francis Jackson! How it carries me back to his generous
gift of $5,000; to that noble, fatherly man and that quiet, lovely
daughter in his home. Never going to Boston during the past fifteen
years, I had lost sight of her, though I had not forgotten her by
any means. How little thought have I had all these years that she
cherished this marvellous trust in me, and now I recognize in her
munificent legacy your own faith in me, for such