A turn about is fair play, and the phrase is really quite refreshing to one’s sense of justice. The ideal woman will not write upon her visiting card, nor insist on having her letters addressed, to Mrs. John Smith, or Mrs. Gen. Smith, as the case may be, but will, if her maiden name was Jones, fling her banner to the breeze as “Mrs. Mary Jones Smith,” and will be sure to make it honorable. She will not be the lay figure made and provided to illustrate the fashions of Monsieur Worth and lesser lights of the same guild, but will insist that the goddess Hygiea is the only true modiste, and will dutifully obey her orders. As the Louvre gallery proves that when men were but the parasites of the court they too decked themselves with ear-rings, high heels, powdered hair and gaudy garments, so the distorted figures in the detestable fashion plates of to-day are the irrefutable proofs of woman’s fractional estate; but this will not be so to-morrow, when she finds her kingdom—which is her own true self. The ideal woman will cease to heed the cruel “Thus far and no farther,” which has issued from the pinched lips of old Dame Custom, checking her ardent steps throughout all the ages past, and will be studious only to hear the kindly “Thus far and no farther” of God. The ideal woman will play Beatrice to man’s Dante in the Inferno of his passions. She will give him the clue out of materialism’s Labyrinth. She will be civilization’s Una, taming the Lion of disease and misery. The State shall no longer go limping on one foot through the years, but shall march off with steps firm and equipoised. The keen eye and deft hand of the housekeeper shall help to make its everyday walks wholesome; the skill in detail, trustworthiness in finance, motherliness in sympathy, so long extolled in private life, shall exalt public station. Indeed, if I were asked the mission of the ideal woman, I would reply: IT IS TO MAKE THE WHOLE WORLD HOMELIKE. Some one has said that “Temperament is the climate of the individual,” but home is woman’s climate, her vital breath, her native air. A true woman carries home with her everywhere. Its atmosphere surrounds her; its mirror is her face; its music attunes her gentle voice; its longitude may be reckoned from wherever you happen to find her. But “Home’s not merely four square walls.”