Sez she, "So many avenues of pleasant lucrative employment are open now to wimmen, and the epithet, Old Maid, is not as of old a badge of contumely, that wimmen won't take a ticket for the lottery of marriage, for but one reason, the only reason that ever made marriage honorable and respectable, and that is true love, not a light mental fancy, nor a short lived physical attraction, but the love that in spite of earthly shadows illuminates hovel and palace, and makes both on 'em the ante-room of Paradise. The love that upholds, inspires, overlooks faults, is constant in sun and shade, and lasts down to the dark valley, and throws its light acrost it into the very Land of Light." Them words sounded good to me, they sounded some like what I had writ more formerly on the subject, and I jined in fervently. "Yes, indeed, and why can't females settle down in matrimony and stay to home with their famblys, and take care of their children?" and I quoted a few words from the dear chapter I had writ first. "There woman is a queen, the poorest female in the slummiest slum is a monark in that sacred place." "Yes," sez Samantha, "sometimes a good man makes a wife supremely happy. But too often nowdays a bright healthy young woman finds in the life she has pictured as the dooryard of Eden a worse serpent than Eve found there, a loathsome souvenir of her husband's old gay life which destroys her own health and happiness, and which she has to hand down to her children's children, makin' 'em invalids and idiots. "The poor workin' mother you speak on if she is well enough can stay at home if she has a home to stay in, and doesn't have to labor outside to sustain it. She can breathe the filthy tenement air, be frozen by its winter, choked by its summer atmosphere, she can guide and guard the youthful steps of her children as far as the doorstep and then she must drop the helpless hand, and if she is inteligent and loving hearted she can wet her pillow with vain tears thinking how her pretty innocent young girl has got to pass vile saloons full of evil men on her way to and from store and factory. The factory filled with gant childish forms, with all the care-free happiness of childhood ground from their faces by the brutal hand of Incessant Toil. Unguarded machinery on every side that one false careless move of her girl may maim or kill. Her pretty girl alone strugglin' with ontold dangers. Youth's wild blood urging her to indiscreet acts, Wolves of Prey on one side, Grim Want on the other. If the mother has a mother's heart, her body may be at home where she is so eloquently urged to be, but her heart will be abroad, in the greater home wimmen want to make safer; the home where her children spend their days. It will be hantin' the factory, the grog shop, the vile picture show, the white slaver's abode, watchin', waitin', for what may happen, what has happened so often to other mothers' children."