Miss Anthony now came forward and told a good story, a noble one, about Olympia Brown. Four months Olympia traveled in Kansas in every way except by railroad. She spoke every day of the four months, and oftener twice than otherwise. Generally she had met the kindest treatment, but sometimes not, for in every audience there is generally a fringe of humanity where there is more boot-heel than brain. There was one district in Kansas where intelligent people lived, where for years they were unable to get a schoolhouse. They could get no majority to vote upon the question, because the claims in the town were owned by single men, who did not want to vote to be taxed, or else by non-residents who were never there to give a decision one way or another. The father worked on year after year, but all in vain. After the passage of the law giving woman the right to vote on the school question, the mothers arose at 11 o’clock at night, voted, and got a schoolhouse. Why the women should be obliged to arise at 11 o’clock at night to vote, instead of waiting until a respectable hour in the morning, Susan forgot to mention. Miss Anthony said once upon a time she was announced to speak in Brooklyn, at the same time with Miss Anna Dickinson. Just as she had changed her frock, and got ready for starting, the fickle Anna telegraphed that she could not be there. There was no time to prepare for this unforeseen catastrophe, so she put on her bonnet and went over to Brooklyn--went into the vast hall, crowded with humanity, who had come to see Anna, not her. Had the heavens opened and buckets of ice-water been showered down upon her head she could have felt no worse. She looked around and there sat Henry Ward Beecher, and Chapin, and a host of intellectual lights, which were enough to cook any woman’s marrow to the bones, and she was as bare of thought as New York is of honesty. She applied a forcing pump to her mind, but still the water of thought wouldn’t come; her brain was as dry as a squeezed orange. What should she do? She looked around on the hungry audience, and at last her eyes rested on Henry Ward Beecher, and she felt saved. Leaving her place on the platform, she advanced to the great preacher, and, laying her hand on his shoulder she said, “You must help me; I can’t do it.” Susan did not tell us whether it was owing to her command or the pressure which she brought to bear on his shoulder that conquered him. At any rate, he came gallantly to her side; and never was such a rousing speech made by the great parson in all the days of his life. Then she said, “What did I tell this story for? Something I am sure! Let me see. Oh, yes! I wanted to prove that men and women needed to work together side by side. When one fails, the other can come to the rescue.” At this moment Susan gave evidence of having touched the bottom of her remarkable strength and vitality. The unmitigated drain upon her vital forces for three days of convention seemed to have done its work. Any other woman would have fainted, but not Susan. She only said, “I think I’ll sit down.”