On the 15th of February we left Baltimore for Washington, where Miss Anthony was to cele- b rate her eighty-sixth birthday. For many years the National American Woman Suffrage Associa- t ion had celebrated our birthdays together, as hers came on the 15th of the month and mine on the 14th. There had been an especially festive banquet when she was seventy-four and I was forty-seven, and our friends had decorated the table with floral ``4's'' and ``7's''--the centerpiece representing ``74'' d uring the first half of the banquet, and ``47'' the latter half. This time ``Aunt Susan'' should not have attempted the Washington celebration, for she was still ill and exhausted by the strain of the con- v ention. But notwithstanding her sufferings and the warnings of her physicians, she insisted on being present; so Miss Garrett sent the trained nurse to Washington with her, and we all tried to make the jour- n ey the least possible strain on the patient's vitality.
On our arrival in Washington we went to the Shoreham, where, as always, the proprietor took pains to give Miss Anthony a room with a view of the Washington monument, which she greatly admired.
When I entered her room a little later I found her standing at a window, holding herself up with hands braced against the casement on either side, and so absorbed in the view that she did not hear my ap- p roach. When I spoke to her she answered with- o ut turning her head.
``That,'' she said, softly, ``is the most beautiful monument in the world.''
I stood by her side, and together we looked at it in silence I realizing with a sick heart that ``Aunt Susan'' knew she was seeing it for the last time.
The birthday celebration that followed our exec- u tive meeting was an impressive one. It was held in the Church of Our Father, whose pastor, the Rev.
John Van Schaick, had always been exceedingly kind to Miss Anthony. Many prominent men spoke.
President Roosevelt and other statesmen sent most friendly letters, and William H. Taft had promised to be present. He did not come, nor did he, then or later, send any excuse for not coming--an omission that greatly disappointed Miss Anthony, who had always admired him. I presided at the meeting, and though we all did our best to make it gay, a strange hush hung over the assemblage a solemn stillness, such as one feels in the presence of death.
We became more and more conscious that Miss Anthony was suffering, and we hastened the exer- c ises all we could. When I read President Roose- v elt's long tribute to her, Miss Anthony rose to comment on it.
``One word from President Roosevelt in his mes- s age to Congress,'' she said, a little wearily, ``would be worth a thousand eulogies of Susan B. Anthony.
When will men learn that what we ask is not praise, but justice?''
At the close of the meeting, realizing how weak she was, I begged her to let me speak for her. But she again rose, rested her hand on my shoulder, and, standing by my side, uttered the last words she ever spoke in public, pleading with women to consecrate themselves to the Cause, assuring them that no power could prevent its ultimate success, but reminding them also that the time of its coming would depend wholly on their work and their loyalty.
She ended with three words--very fitting words from her lips, expressing as they did the spirit of her life-work--``FAILURE IS IMPOSSIBLE.''
The next morning she was taken to her home in Rochester, and one month from that day we con- d ucted her funeral services. The nurse who had accompanied her from Baltimore remained with her until two others had been secured to take her place, and every care that love or medical science could suggest was lavished on the patient. But from the first it was plain that, as she herself had foretold, ``Aunt Susan's'' soul was merely waiting for the hour of its passing.
One of her characteristic traits was a dislike to being seen, even by those nearest to her, when she was not well. During the first three weeks of her last illness, therefore, I did what she wished me to do--I continued our work, trying to do hers as well as my own. But all the time my heart was in her sick-room, and at last the day came when I could no longer remain away from her. I had awakened in the morning with a strong conviction that she needed me, and at the breakfast-table I announced to her niece, Miss Lucy Anthony, the friend who for years has shared my home, that I was going at once to ``Aunt Susan.''
``I shall not even wait to telegraph,'' I declared.
``I am sure she has sent for me; I shall take the first train.''
The journey brought me very close to death. As we were approaching Wilkes-Barre our train ran into a wagon loaded with powder and dynamite, which had been left on the track. The horses attached to it had been unhitched by their driver, who had spent his time in this effort, when he saw the train coming, instead of in signaling to the engineer. I was on my way to the dining-car when the collision occurred. a nd, with every one else who happened to be stand- i ng, I was hurled to the floor by the impact; flash after flash of blinding light outside, accompanied by a terrific roar, added to the panic of the passengers.
When the train stopped we learned how narrow had been our escape from an especially unpleasant form of death. The dynamite in the wagon was frozen, and therefore had not exploded; it was the ex- p losion of the powder that had caused the flashes and the din. The dark-green cars were burned almost white, and as we stood staring at them, a silent, stunned group, our conductor said, quietly, ``You will never be as near death again, and escape, as you have been to-day.''
The accident caused a long delay, and it was ten o'clock at night when I reached Rochester and Miss Anthony's home. As I entered the house Miss Mary Anthony rose in surprise to greet me.
``How did you get here so soon?'' she cried.
And then: ``We sent for you this afternoon. Susan has been asking for you all day.''
