Then we dispersed to meet again at three o'clock in Trafalgar Square. No better meeting place could have been chosen, for it was here in Trafalgar Square, that Edmund Beales and the other leaders of the Reform movement had spoken when the Hyde Park gates had been closed against them by the authorities on that historic 23rd of July, 1866, on which the Park railings were pulled down and the blow struck which won the Parliamentary vote for the working men in the towns. It was here, too, that in February, 1886, John Burns had made that speech to the starving unemployed men of his own class which caused him to suffer a month's imprisonment and made him a famous man, and it was here in Trafalgar Square on the 5th of November, 1887, that, in taking part in the Demonstration against the imprisonment of O'Brien and the other Irish leaders, poor Alfred Linnell had been trampled to death by the horses of the police. On this ground, consecrate to the discontented and the oppressed, under that tall column topped by the statue of the fighting Nelson and on that wide plinth, flanked by the four crouching lions, the first big open-air Women's Suffrage meeting in London was held. By three o'clock more than 7,000 people had assembled. I well remember every detail of the scene. In my mind's eye I can clearly see the Chairman, my mother, with her pale face, her quiet dark clothes, her manner, calm as it always is on great occasions, and her quiet-sounding but far-reaching voice with its plaintive minor chords. I can see beside her the strangely diverse group of speakers: Theresa Billington in her bright blue dress, strongly built and up-standing, her bare head crowned with those brown coils of wonderfully abundant hair. I see Keir Hardie, in his rough brown homespun jacket, with his deep-set, honest eyes, and his face full of human kindness, framed by the halo of his silver hair. Then Mrs. Elmy, fragile, delicate, and wonderfully sweet, with her face looking like a tiny bit of finely modelled, finely tinted porcelain, her shining dark-brown eyes and her long grey curls. Standing very close to her is Annie Kenney, whose soft bright hair falls loosely from her vivid sensitive face, and hangs down her back in a long plait, just as she wore it in the cotton mill. Over her head she wears a grey shawl as she did in Lancashire, and pinned to her white blouse is a brilliant red rosette, showing her to be one of the marshals of the procession, whilst her dark-blue serge skirt just shows the steel tips of her clogs. How beautiful they are, these two women, as hand clasped in hand they stand before us!--one rich in the mellow sweetness of a ripe old age which crowns a life of long toil for the common good; the other filled with the ardour of a chivalrous youth; both dedicated to a great reform. But now, Annie Kenney speaks. She stands out, a striking, almost startling, figure, against the blackened stone-work of the