On November 13 the New York _Tribune_ announced the death of Lucretia
Mott, eighty-eight years old. Having known her in the flush of life,
when all her faculties were at their zenith, and in the repose of age,
when her powers began to wane, her withdrawal from among us seemed as
beautiful and natural as the changing foliage, from summer to autumn, of
some grand old oak I have watched and loved.

The arrival of Miss Anthony and Mrs. Gage, on November 20, banished all
family matters from my mind. What planning, now, for volumes, chapters,
footnotes, margins, appendices, paper, and type; of engravings, title,
preface, and introduction! I had never thought that the publication of a
book required the consideration of such endless details. We stood
appalled before the mass of material, growing higher and higher with
every mail, and the thought of all the reading involved made us feel as
if our lifework lay before us. Six weeks of steady labor all day, and
often until midnight, made no visible decrease in the pile of documents.
However, before the end of the month we had our arrangements all made
with publishers and engravers, and six chapters in print. When we began
to correct proof we felt as if something was accomplished. Thus we
worked through the winter and far into the spring, with no change except
the Washington Convention and an occasional evening meeting in New York
city. We had frequent visits from friends whom we were glad to see.
Hither came Edward M. Davis, Sarah Pugh, Adeline Thompson, Frederick
Cabot of Boston, Dr. William F. Channing, and sweet little Clara Spence,
who recited for us some of the most beautiful selections in her
repertoire.

In addition we had numberless letters from friends and foes, some
praising and some condemning our proposed undertaking, and, though much