suitable young women, to follow my
example, as noted down in this book--if it has been successful. Shall I
give you some sort of written agreement?"

"Just record the agreement as a note in the book, and I will sign it,"
answered Jane, in her crispest and most business-like tone of voice,
though I could see she was trembling with excitement, and poor Mary
Elizabeth was both awe-struck and hopeful.

I'll invite Mary Elizabeth down to Glendale, as soon as I stake out my
own claim, poor dear!

And here I sit alone at midnight, with a huge, steel-bound,
lock-and-keyed book that Jane has had made for me, with my name and the
inscription, "In case of death, send unopened to Jane Mathers, Boston,
Massachusetts," on the back, committed to a cause as crazy and as
serious as anything since the Pilgrimages, or the Quest of the Knights
for the Grail. It also looks slightly like trying to produce a modern
Don Quixote, feminine edition, and my cheeks are flaming so that I
wouldn't look at them for worlds. And to write it all, too! I have
always had my opinion of women who spill their souls out of an
ink-bottle, but I ought to pardon a nihilist, that in the dead of night,
cold with terror, confides some awful appointment he has had made him,
to his nearest friend. I am the worst nihilist that ever existed, and
the bomb I am throwing may explode and destroy the human race. But, on
the other hand, the explosion might be of another kind. Suppose that
suddenly a real woman's entire nature should be revealed to the world,
might not the universe be enveloped in a rose glory and a love
symphony? We'll see!

Also, could the time ever come when a woman wouldn't risk hanging over
the ragged edge of Heaven to hold on to the hand of some man? Never!
Then, as that is the case, I see we must all keep the same firm grip on
the creatures we have always had, and haul them over the edge, but we
must not do it any more without letting them know about it--it isn't
honest. Yes, women must solidify their love into such a concrete form
that men can weigh and measure it, and decide for themselves whether
they want to--to climb to Heaven for it, or remain comfortable old
bachelors. We mustn't any more lead them into marriage blinded by the
overpowering gaseous fragrance called romantic love.

But, suppose I should lose all love for everybody in this queer quest
for enlightenment I have undertaken? Please, God, let a good man be in
Glendale, Tennessee, w