came forth in English dress, which, however, often needed much altering
and polishing. This was my part of the work. So, away off in the heart
of France, high up in the Black Mountains, surrounded with
French-speaking relatives and patois-speaking peasants, I found myself
once more putting bad English into the best I could command, just as I
had so often done in America, when editor of _The Revolution_, or when
arranging manuscript for "The History of Woman Suffrage." But it was
labor in the cause of my sex; it was aiding in the creation of "The
Woman Question in Europe," and so my pen did not grow slack nor my hand
weary.

The scenery in the Black Mountains is very grand, and reminds one of the
lofty ranges of mountains around the Yosemite Valley in California. In
the distance are the snow-capped Pyrenees, producing a solemn beauty, a
profound solitude. We used to go every evening where we could see the
sun set and watch the changing shadows in the broad valley below.
Another great pleasure here was watching the gradual development of my
first grandchild, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, born at Paris, on the 3d of
May, 1882. She was a fine child; though only three months old her head
was covered with dark hair, and her large blue eyes looked out with
intense earnestness from beneath her well-shaped brow.

One night I had a terrible fright. I was the only person sleeping on
the ground floor of the château, and my room was at the extreme end of
the building, with the staircase on the other side. I had frequently
been cautioned not to leave my windows open, as someone might get in.
But, as I always slept with an open window, winter and summer, I thought
I would take the risk rather than endure a feeling of suffocation night
after night. The blinds were solid, and to close them was to exclude all
the air, so I left them open about a foot, braced by an iron hook. A