elease her until May. She was almost
desperate to be with the loved one and at last could bear it no longer,
so telegraphing Mr. Slayton to cancel everything after April 5,
regardless of consequences, she took the train at Chicago and reached
Leavenworth on the 7th. She found her sister rapidly declining with the
same inexorable disease which had claimed another four years before,
and at once installed herself beside the invalid, who was rejoiced
indeed to have her companionship and ministrations. All that loving
hands could do she had had from husband, children and brothers, but she
had longed for the presence of her sister and it filled her with joy
and peace.

In just a week, though her heart was breaking, Miss Anthony was obliged
to return to Illinois to fill four or five engagements in places which
threatened claims for damages if this were not done. She hastened back
to Leavenworth, reaching the bedside of her sister at midnight, April
20, and scarcely leaving it a moment until the end came, May 12.
Between herself and this sister, just nineteen months younger,
beautiful in character and strong in affection, there ever had existed
the closest sympathy. For the last decade they had been separated only
by a dooryard, they had shared each other's every joy and sorrow, and
the severing of these ties of over a half-century seemed more than she
could endure.

She remained at Leavenworth,[92] trying to renew her strength and
courage, until the last of June, when she returned to Rochester, taking
with her the orphaned daughter Louise. Many comforting letters and
tokens of affection came to her during these months, among them a gift
of $100 from Helen Potter, the famous impersonator. Her imitations of
Gough, Ristori, Charlotte Cushman, Anna Dickinson, Mrs. Stanton and
even Miss Anthony herself were most remarkable. During the Centennial
they had become warm personal friends, and in giving the money she
said: "Now, this is not for any society or committee or cause, but for
your very self."

Mrs. Stanton wrote her: "Do be careful, dear Susan, you can not stand
what you once did. I should feel desolate indeed with you gone." When
the lecturing had commenced she again wrote: "As I go dragging around
in these despicable hotels, I think of you and often wish we had at
least the little comfort of enduring it together. When is your agony
over?" Referring to a young woman speaker who was being spoiled by
flattery, she said: "We