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L
to do that desper ate .deed?” she cried,
wildly.
“I did not/’ answered York.
“Tell m**,” she exclaimed, starting
up, “how did she come to be at the
house of that strange woman—that
Mrs. Le Verde? You sent for her to
come to you because >ou were ill—dy
ing, th»* sister said. Were you at Mrs.
Le Verde’s hous-? Were you really
ill, or was it all a plot to destroy a
girl who had already sacrificed herself
for you? Oh, could you be so cruel?
She hud suffered enough through jou.
It was hard enough for her to know
that you had deserted her—that you
were to be married to another. Why
should you do this last cruel thing,
just to put her out of your way?
Could you not have snared her to me,
her poor old helpless mother? She
wo"ld never have bothered yo i. She
would never ha e thrust herself upon
you and your wife. She loved you too
well to give you pa«n—p-or, faithful
little heart! Her wound might have
healed in time; she might have found
comfort in t er baby. But you—Oh, go
away! I cannot look at my child’s de
stroyer !”
She was fearfully agitated. Her
hands shook as she waved him from
her. Her voice was broken with sobs.
York looked at her with profound
sympathy. He stood there, trying to
think what was the best thing to do.
He told Lina to go into the next room,
then he came c ose to the bed, and
said, gently:
“I beg you to calm yourself, Mrs.
Earle. I want to talk with you. I
think some good may result from our
talking quietly together. At least,
when you have heard me you will not
feel resentful <o me Any more, perhaps
you will not feel bitier toward my
cousin.”
“Your cousin?”
She looked up bewildered.
“What has your cousin to do with it?
What cousin is this?”
“My cousin York Van Zandt whom
you knew. You nid not know me, Mrs.
Earle. \ have never injured you—
never known you.”
“You are mocking me, sir,” she said,
a flush of angel* coming into her pale
cheek. ‘ Do you think this is a matter
to jest about?”
“No, Mrs Earle; it isn sad and grave
maiter and a very perplex ng one. It
is in the hope of being able to clear it
up a litt'e that I have come here and
asked you to talk to me as • almJy as
you can. Listen ro me first a little. 1
am not the York Van Zandt you know,
though my name is the same as 1*is,
and my lace and form and voice must
be very like his indeed for T am taken
for him by every one of his friends
whom I have met since I came to this
city. T only arrived yesterday. 1 came
from California I did not know 1 had
any relation i < Uiis city, much less a
cousinjwho was also my double. V eare
the sons of twin brothers who were s-i
much alike as not to be kimwn apart.
They dritted away from each ether,
and they lived in widely separated
portions of the country aid they hist
sight of each oth-r.”
“And you are not York Van Zandt?”
Mrs. Earle was looking at him fix
edly, wonder and doubt on her face.
“Not the York Van Zandt you
knew.”
“Come nearer.”
He bent over and she reached up and
put aside a lock of hair that lay on his
forehead.
“It is not there; the scar is not
there,” she said, quickly. “You are r.ot
the York Van Zandt I used to be so
fond of, and cannot hate even now.
Where is he?”
“Who knows?” said York, sadly.
“No one can teH me. Everything here
demands his presence. His mother is
broken-hearted.”
“She deserves to be,” broke in Mrs.
E rle. “No, I must not say that; but,
oh, she came here and crushed my poor
child!”
‘ ‘She is sorry for it, no doubt. Mother
and son inav both be remorseful and
unhappy, w’herever thej are. 1 have
not seen his mother, but 1 want to hear
all I can about your daughter’s case.
Will you tell me her story, and let me
question you a little when things are
not clear to me? 1 have a motive—a
reason for wanting to know everything
in detail. Your daughter—is her name
also Earle? She bears no resemblance
to Mr. Earle.”
‘She has none of his blood in her
veins, thank God”’ the invalid an
swered, quickly. “Her name is Hunter.
Her father was my first husband—a
noble gentleman. He was an officer
in the Confederate army. We were
Southerners—Mississippians. He was
wounded in one of the last battles and
was never strong again. He died three
years after the war ended—when Agnes
was a baby. Two years later I married
my overseer. It was a mad act that I
have been bitterly punished for. He
had been our farm manager for years.
He was cunning and persistent and
passionate, and 1 was weak and foolish.
He induced me to sell the farm and
come to New York. He soon spent
the money in drink and betting at
races. Then we struggled on some
how, L teaching music and taking
lodgers. When Agues was thirteen
years old I had my spine injured, and
soon L became helpless and bed-ridden.
I have been in this condition for six
years. How did I live? Why. that
child supported me and her drunken
step-fath* r. She learned to embroider
and lo make passementerie. She b -
rame a skillful artist in her line, and
earned enough to keep a roof over us
and bread i" our mouths. She would
have earned more, but she had to work
at home. She could not leave me alone,
and she had the work of the house to
do besides waiting on me. I could
help her with her needD-wirk some
times—on the days when I was feeli' g
be t. One sleety day she was taking
some work home to the establishment.
In trying to make ►er way a r a crowded
crossing she was thrown to the ground
and the wheel of a carriage passed over
her arm. Two men were in another
carriage. They jump-d out and lifted
her up. Her arm was broken and she
was unconscious.
“She was put into the carriage, her
address was found in her pocket, and
she was driven home. One of the young
men came with her. It was your cous
in. I feel like saying it was yourself
as I look at you, but the scar is not on
your temple. lie was so good to Ag
nes; he in-isied on paying the sur
geon’s bill; he sent flowers and fruit
and every sort of delicacy. He came
often to ask about her. Have I told
you she was beautiful? She had the
loveliest face I ever saw. It was so
full of goodness and innocence! She
was as innocent as a little child. She
had never been out in the world or
mixed with people. She had never
even been to school. I had taught her,
and she had learned from the old books
of romance and poetry and history. I
bad kept remnants of my hushand’s
fine library. She was a pearl in adung
hill, f« r we were living in wretched
poverty. My husband drank up all
that w- made and part of the earnings
of Agnes. We had no comforts. It
was a hard winter and .Agnes’s broken
arm kept her from working. I don’t
know what we would have done had it
not been for York. He persisted in
helping us, and we let him have his
way He was so kind and friendly it
didn't seem bard to take help from him
or strange to have him come and sit
down in a miserable home and talk to
us, and bring books and flowers.
“Often Earle was drinking, and
coarse and brutal in talk and act.
Once he swore at Agnes and called her
some foul name. York jumped at him
and there was a scuffle. Your cousin
mastered him, but it was then he got
the hurt on the temple that made the
scar. Well, the short of it was York
grew fond of Agnes, and she loved
him. How 7 could site help it? She
worshiped him as if he were a god. I
was a poor, silly, romantic woman, or
I would have known lmw i must end.
But I bad lived out of the world so
much, and read so many romances I
thought it not so out of place that
tb*-se two beautiful young creatures
should love and marry each other. He
was the first to tear the \eil from our
eyes. He told us one night that the
young girl his mother had picked out
ror him to marry was coming home
from Paris, where she had been at
school.
‘He bad not seen her since she wa«
grown, but it bad been understood that
they would marry after sh- had been in
society a season. His mother was anx
ious for the marriage to take place.
The girl bad money and beauty and
family influence. His mother had great
schemes for him. She wanted him to
be a leader in society, in politics, too
All his friends expected 1 im to make
a brilliant marriage. He would disap
point them. He would never marry.
He would never take a wife without
love, and he could not marry a woman
out of his class; this would be bringing
m sery upon her head. He couldn't let
a woman he loved be subjected to the
ordeal she would have to undergo among
the women of his mother’s set. Then
he looked at Agnes. He saw she was
pale and troubled. Jle took her hand,
and said, ‘ I will leave alt of it behind—
the money and the honors and the po
sition—and take the girl I love to some
wilderness, where thtre are no sets and
classes.’
“He kissed her, as he had done once
or twice before in my presence, and said
good-bye. He was going out of the cit y
on business for a week. The next day
Agnes told me she had answered an ad
vertisement for a lady’s-maid in a fam
ily who lived on Madison square. She
wanted to live among the people of that
class a little while, she said, to find out
how they talked and felt. She had got
a woman to stay with me for the few
days she would be away. I understood
her. I let her go. In four days she
came back. She was pale and low-spir
ited.
“‘I have decided,’ she said; “York
shall not sacrifice himself for me. I
could not live among them. It would
kill me, and torture him Think of my
step-father slapping him on the shoul
der before his grand friends, and laugh
ing one of his bourse, drunken laughs.
And I will nor let him go away with
me, from his friends, and his mother,
and his business. No; I will give him
up, if it breaks my heart; better that
than to give him pain. He has been so
good to me and to you. He has given
our lives more bright ness than 1 ever
dreamed of. No; I will not see him
again, for his sake.’
“ But she did see him again. He came,
and she loved him too well to keep her
promise. One Sunday she went away
with him out of the city. She did not
come back until the next morning. She
came to my bed, and l cried out:
“‘Unhappy child! wlitt have you
done?’
“‘I have given myself to the man
who loves me and wants me,’ she said.
“‘He has married you?’
“She sh<*ok her head.
“ ‘Did I not tell you I would not per
mit him to sacrifice himself for me?’
she answered.
“‘You have sacrificed yourself—your
reputation forever,’ T said.
“Sho smiled bitterly.
“ ‘What is reputation to me? Who
knows or cares for me, but him?
He is all my world—he and you. You
will love me the same. I have done uo
wr ng.’
“ ‘It was all she would ever say. But
I always believed she had married him
secretly, and that she would ke p the
secret to the end of her life. After
that York took us t<» th^se comfortable
apartments. He fitted up this room
for her. He was devoted to her. He
came every evening. He gave her
everythinghecould find out she wanted.
It went on this way for months. A
change came gradually. His visits
were not so frequent. He went oftener
to balls and the opera. The young
woman his mother wanted him to
marry had come from Paris. The pa
pers teemed with praises of her beaufy
and her toilets. They associated her
name with York’s. Agnes read the
gossip, but she made no comment. She
never complained or upbraided him
when the time of his visits grew wider
and wider apart. lie was fond of her
still. I know he loved her best, though
the beauty of Gertrude Danf. rth—t at
was her name—may have ensnared his
fancy. Men are incapable of con
stancy, and there was strong pressure
brought to bear on him. No one
guessed his and Agnes’s secret. He
lived here as far out of the fashionable
world as if U was in a foreign land.
He had no friends, no visitors, no ac
quaintances, even. But one day a wo
man came on a pretext of charity. She
was fair and handsome—or seemed so
under her thick lace veil. She talked
to me, but she looked at Agnes. Two
or three da» s afterward there was a
paragraph in a gossiping paper hit ing
at him and his ‘pet pigeon hid away in
his down-town nesf.’ It annoyed him,
he said ; it made his mother wild. Not
long afterward Agnes’s baby was born.
He had not been here for a week. He
caone at once in an-wer to a guarded
telegram. He took Agnes and Urn
baby in his arms and kissed them
again and again. ‘They ahull never
part us, my darlings,’ tie said. But he
seemed as he often seemed now—rest
less and ill and unhappy.
“The next week a handsome, scorn
ful w *u-an walked into the room. It
was his mother. She trampled on my
poor child’s feelings. She called her a
vile name and said she had ruined her
son; that she had brought shame upon
him and destroyed his prospects. She
told her the only decent thing she
could now do was to drown herself and
her child. When she went away Agnes
lay cold and trembling—half dead.
Two weeks went by and we heard
nothing of York. One da a Sister of
Charity came in a carriage and told
Agnes she hail be-n sent from i ll up
town hospital to bring her and her baby
to see York Van Zandt, who w;s very
ill—dangerously ill. He had b gged
to have Agnes sent for. The poor
child got ready as quickly as her
trembling fingers could fasten her
cloak and hat. She-took the baby ir>
her arms. She came and k issed me and
went out, and I have never seen her
since, I could hear nothing of her
until I read her name in the paper and
saw where she was lying dead at the
morgue."
For the Sunny South.]
To a Portrait.
I look into thine eyes, and yet
They rest not on mine own;
But with a steadfast gaze they’re set—
A look that I can ne’er forget—
Upon the great Unknown.
I longer gaze, and in thine eyes.
Reflected, I ran see
The glittering stars in yonder skies,
Thou’lt scatter midst a'pplauding cries,
Throughout eternity.
Stirs >n my soul from death-like sleep
A power l dreamed was dead;
And its reproaches, wild and deep,
That do my soul in anguish steep.
About my life are shed.
And as thine eye its watch e’er keeps
Up >n the starry trains,
A painful gladness o’er me sweeps.
My soul, too sees the stars, and leaps,
But falls back on its chains.
Mabib Annie Henson.
Colt-man's Falls, Vo.
The Writing Material of Antiquity.
(TO be continued.)
In connection with Hugo, the Paris
Gaulois relates the following curious his
tory; “A few weeks ago an old negress
came from Bridgetown, on the island of
Barbadoes, to a missionary, and asked
him to read three masses for Victor Hugo.
The missionary was astonished, and at
first believed that he had misunderstood
the visitor. But the negress replied to
his questions that years ago she had
given aid to the daughter of the author
of the ‘Orientales,’ who had married an
English officer against the will of her
father, and had fled with him to Bar
badoes. The officer deserted his wife,
who consequently became almost insane
and was cared for in that condition by
the negress. The negress wrote to the
poet of the sad condition of his child.
Hugo sent her two thousand francs and
had her go to Paris with the daughter.
After remaining for a time in the house
of the author, the negress decided to
return to Barbadoes. One reason for this
was the fact that the poor daughter had
become incurably insane and had been
consigned to an asylum. The poet, who
respected the negress because of the love
she had borne his daughter, said to her
before her departure from Paris, ‘When
you hear of my death in your native
country, have three masses read for me.’
The old woman, who first heard of the
death of Victor Hugo a few months ago,
has now fulfilled the wishes of the noet.”
The legs of a chair never stick out
half so far behind at any other time
as when a man is prowling about in
the dark barefooted.
All the various applications of pa
pyrus were secondary to its use as writ
ing material, for which purpose it was j
cultivated more or less assiduously in
various parts of Egypt, and most pro
fusely in the branches of the streams '
running from the Delta. In the olden j
days, Egi pt cultivated and prepared
I he papyrus especially for home i on-
sumption, but later, under the kings ol'
the Twenty-sixth Dynasty (b. c. 6(>4 to
52o), having opened its ports to foreign
ship, the papyrus became a most
important export. Its use increased
with surprising rapidity in conse
quence of ihe success!ul expeditions of
Alexander the Great, introducing Greek
culture into Asia and Egypt. It was
only at Pergamurn that parchment was
used later. It use was, however, at
that time much less than that of papy
rus.
The proper manner of treating the
papyrus pl-nf, which flourished so
abundantly in The Delta, in order to
obtain paper from it, had been already
discovered by the ancient Egyptians.
The industrious Greeks, of Alexandria,
could easily iuier what were the meth
ods of the time of th- Pharaohs, and
their industries soon assumed large
proportions.
The nature of the manufacture of
papyrus admitted of the employment
of the weak, as I endeavored to por
tray in my novel, “The Emperor,” and
l certainly did not err in introducing
women among the working people.
In the time of the Pharaohs the small
workshops supplied only Egypt, but
later Alexandria supplied the markets
of the world.
The innumerable proofs preserved
from the epochs of the history of the
Middle Empire until late into the
period of Egypt's conversion to Mo-
bammedanism show that papyrus had
always been manufactured iti the same
way, but they show as well that the
beauty of the material suffered in
Alexandria Irom the fabrication of
such enormous quantities. The fine
and uniformly-constructed rolls pro
duced in the eighteenth, nineteenth
and twentieth dynasties have not been
found in the Hellenic, Roman, Byzan
tine or Mussulman times. But of all
the papyri we saw there was none that
was not manufactured by the same
process.
Pliny gives a complete description
of tiie fabrication of writing material
troin ill-; papyrus plant, although lie
does not seem to have witnessed it
per.-onally, but to have followed an
unreliable report, or Greek descrip ion,
in which lie evidently misunderstands
some of the technical expressions, for
he misrepresents the most important
step in the process—the conversion of
the interior of the stalk into leaf-like
strips. When the stalks had been freed
from the pith, to be then cut into
lamellae, or strips, he speaks of papyrus
bast “philyrae,” and says that the sepa
ration of the inner substance of the
papyrus had been performed by means
of a needle.
His further description of the manu
facture of papyrus is, on the whole,
correct, although containing obscure
passages; but, in the matter of the
bast and needle, his authority has
proved so omnipotent, that even iu
the recent second edition of the earn
est and laborious work of V. Loret,
‘La Flore Pharonique,” 1892, we are
told that “the external part of the tri
angular stalk contains several very
ligut and concentric skins like the
onion, which are separated from the
stalk by light blows.” Such skins,
however, exist only in the imagination
of the author, who seeks by tneir help
to explain the needle and the bast of
Pliny. Prof. Schenck, the late emi
nent botanist in Leipzig, working
with all the appliances of modern
times, carefully examined (I.) a piece
of the Eber^papyrus; (II.) one of a
beautiful papyrus of the Eighteenth
Dynasty; (III.) a small fragment of
the London Harrispapyrus, and found
that the material out of which they
were all prepared was one and the
same. “If you ask me,” he observes in
a letter addressed to us, “what tissue
of tfie plant was used in the prepara
tion of the specimens examined, i can
state that it is only the fibra-vascular
tissue, with its surrounding parenchy
ma, the tissue of which is usually un
derstood as signifying the pith of the
plant. Of the outer layer of tissue,
thee- i* no trare.” Typer,„ papyrus
contains, consequently no bast J
A* to the method of preparation
Professor Schenck says; “i Miev . /
i am «orrect in adopi ing the opinion
that in tie preparation of p ap . n
thinner or thicker lamella*, were cur
from ttie inner fex’ure of pith, an q
the^e were tmui laid upon each otuer
in such wise that the fibres crossed
the finer sorts being prepared of two’
and the rougher kin s of three lamella;’
rhe thickness thus differing with the
variety. They were then united by an
adhesive substance, of what nature 1
cm giv*- no definite information. Its
solubility in potash seems to indicate
the use of the white of an eg*r, and
possibly this alone was emplo ed.”
Pliny, too, indicates correctly the man
ner in which The papyrus was prepared
from the lamella*. He says series of
lamella? or strips (schidae) were laid
upon a table perpendicularly (that is
to say toward the workman); the sec
ond .-trip being put transversely above
it.” The lay of the fibres of the plant
renders it easy, even up to the present
nay, to recognize the mw which was
laid on the table towards the work
man, and the one which was glued
over that. The transverse placing of
the lamella; is very aptly called “weav
ing” by Pliny, thereby signifying the
warp and woof, the strips iniercross-
ing one another in this manner. In
his opinion, the adhesive material was
paste (giuten).
The further treatment o r the inter
crossed strips, to render them available
for writing purposes, is admirably giv
en by Pliny. Primarily, the »dges
were cut smooth and pressed while
still wet, then beaten thinner with a
hammer, and again fastened together
with the adhesive substance; the piece,
consisting of one strip, was put again
under the press, to free it from any un
evenness; it was tfien hammered once
more, anil put in the sun to dry. Rough
or uneven places were smoothed wit h a
tooili or with a shell. It was then
considered finished.—George Ebcr's Lit
erary Digest.
An Anti-Profanity League.
“I don’t think I’d have much trouble
if I set my mind on it,” said another.
“But shere’s Higgins-
prees himself if he
-he couldn’t ex-
didn’t swear in
every other sentence ”
“i’ll bet 1 can give up swearing
quicker than jou can,” said Higgins,
hotly. “I’ll br-t I can stop now and
not swear again between this and the
New Year.”
• ••Suppose we try the experiment,”
said Uie city editor, “and see just how
hard it is. Let’s organize an anti
profanity league right here and now;
and, in order that there may be an ob
ject in stopping it, we’ll fine every
man who joins live Cents fur every pro
fane word he uses.”
“And where will the fines go?”*said
Higgins, forgetful of the fa t that he
was to contribute none of them, and
therefore had no interest in their dis
posal
‘ To buy Dick an overcoat,” said the
city editor.
Whether th- want of the overcoat
suggested tile League, or the exiateuce
of the League suggested the possi
bility of the overcoat I do not know;
but in either case Dick became wrapped
up in tile Anti-Prolauiiy project, and
I think by the majority of the men in
the office lie wa; considered the cause
of it. Within five minutes after the
organization of the League, the Man
aging Editor i-ad been fined twenty-
five cen s for speaking with a thought
less vehemence of the foreman of the
composing-room. When the objects of
the League had been explained to him,
he said, “Here’s a dollar. That ought
to buy me a life-membership.” About
this nucleus the League began to make
its collection. The fear of that flve-
cent fine did more than the fear of the
Lord had ever done to purify conversa
tion in the local-room ; but the habit of
profanity was so firmly founded that
tor the first two days of the League’s
existence it began to look as though
Dick would draw all the salaries
at the end of the week. The
reform grew more perfect each day,
however, until the tine-box began to
show only fifteen or twenty cents as
the resuit of a day’s work. Before that
time, enough had accumulated to buy
Dick an overcoat, and the surplus that
was collected later purchased a pair of
gloves and some new shoes, which
seemed to be needed. The overcoat
was received with a choking acknow l
edgment; and the next day Dick came
to us with the announcement that his
mother was “much obliged to the gen
tlemen” for their kindness. That was
the first we had heard of Dick’s people.
That day, while most of us were out
on assignments, the city editor asked
Dick to tell him about his home. He
had no father, he said. There were
only his mother and little sister. His
moi her was never very well, and she
had been quite sick this winter—so
sick that she had had to give up her
sewing lor a time. They lived in a
tenement house iu one of the crowded
districts. It was not far irom the
office.—George Grantham Bain, -in Febru
ary Lippincott's.
The largest child ever born, it is
said, was the son of Bates, the “Ken
tucky Giant,” and his wife, the “Nova
Scotia Giantess.” This infant Hercules
weighed 23% pounds.