The morning after my arrival in the City of Brotherly Love, I called on Priscilla at her residence in Arch Street, as I supposed with her mother. I found her surrounded by some ten or a dozen reformers, variously dressed; some in petticoats, some in pantaloons: some with and some without beards; the majority appearing to be of what grammarians call the epicene gender. She greeted me kindly, and requested me to be seated; she would be disengaged in a few moments. I took a seat, and amused myself as well as I could in studying the interesting group before me, and considering the sort of materials that go to the making up of a world-reformer, and the charming associates I was likely to have in my new career. Having listened to their several reports, heard their suggestions, and given them her directions, Priscilla soon dismissed them with a sweet smile, and a graceful salute with her hand, that would have done credit to the grace and dignity of an empress. She then seated herself near me, and welcomed me most cordially and affectionately to Philadelphia. My visit was an unexpected pleasure, but all the more welcome. “But,” she exclaimed, looking me more closely in the face, and struck with my changed and careworn expression, “what in the world, my friend, has happened to you?” I was about to reply, when I observed that we were not alone. An exceedingly meek and submissive-looking man, if man he could be called, had just entered the room, and seemed to be hesitating whether to advance or retreat. I looked inquiringly at Priscilla. “O, it is only my husband,” she replied. Then turning, with her sweet face to him, with an indefinable charm in her soft musical tones, said, “You may leave us, dear James. This gentleman and I would be alone.” He quietly retreated through the door he had entered, gently closed it, and went away without speaking a word, or betraying the least sign of discontent. “But, my dear madam,” said I, “this takes me by surprise. I was not aware that you had a husband.” “Possibly not; yet I have been married these five years.” “What! you were married when I was in the city last year and had the pleasure of meeting you, and having that most pleasant and instructive conversation with you?” “Most assuredly.” “This alters my plan. I had made up my mind,—” “Not to marry me yourself?” “Pardon me, my dear madam, but I own that I had dreamed of something of the sort.” “You might have done worse. I could have made you a good wife, but you would never have made me a good husband.” “Why not? I am not precisely a man to be slightly rejected.”