Conversation darted hither and thither like Noah’s dove, who could find no rest for the sole of her foot. The watery waste of speech was all around us, but the Gentile was afraid and the Saint coldly indifferent. The Gentile ventured to ask if the queen was not pleased with the prosperity of our country, and was it not astonishing, after such a prolonged civil war? She “hadn’t been accustomed to think much about such things.” “How does Utah compare with this part of the world?” was the next inquiry. “Not much difference; the world is just about the same all over.” “I am told it is very expensive living after you leave Omaha.” “I never think about such things.” “Have you met Madame Daubigney, the great French traveler? I am told she has a reputation in Europe next to the late Madame Pneiffer. She is in Washington, and expects to leave soon for Salt Lake.” “Yes, she has been to see me two or three times, but I try to discourage her. I don’t believe in women lecturers and women artists. I am told she dabbles in both.” A fearful pause. “Have you called upon Mrs. Grant?” “No, I never call upon ladies, but I intend to pay my respects to the President. I wouldn’t like to tell them at home that I hadn’t seen him.” The Gentile kindly alluded to the fact that Joseph Smith was an old acquaintance of her family, and although her father differed with him in belief, yet, as a neighbor, he was trusted with many of his first revelations. No response; the electric current of the mind would not work. Our meeting was like the greeting of two planets whose paths happened to intersect. We neared each other for a moment, only to separate, each flying from the other, and one, if not both of us, feeling the awful effects of human fanaticism when it comes between two citizens of the same Republic. The lengthening shadows of night crept into the room. A street lamp before the open window had been lighted, and its rays fell upon the marble features of this pale, amber-haired blonde, and the classic cast of her countenance might have answered for a model of beauty for either the sculptor or the painter. But other shapes almost as tangible were there also. They were the demons of the dark ages come back to mock us. This seventieth wife with her fair face had touched the sepulchre of the past, and grinning specters of the past were among us. The very air seemed to say for this silent woman: “If we were strong and you were weak, woman should again take her place at the foot of a ladder. Is the woman of to-day wiser or better than was Rachel or Sarah?”