The Sauk Centre herald. (Sauk Centre, Stearns County, Minn.) 1886-current, 1904-11-24
she was little girl had amused her
self writing stories.

scAl "I1tluS stOIlcS.
My uncle, a professor in a pro-
yincial school, has written many books
on education she went on, and my
father, too, has written
All. your father?
1t was some time ago. He does
not write any more now.
She changed the subject quickly
and naturally. did not insist.
presently she seemed more at ease
and talked readily of her plans for
the future. She was not ignorant OF
the difficulties of literary life; rather.
she exaggerated them.
She pleased me. She was capable
CT the greatest enthusiasm, but was
without the slightest trace of envy or
bitterness.
I'VE parted warm friends. She took
her manuscript with her, for she
wished to make few changes. The
very next day l set about finding an
editor for her work.
1T was easier than had hoped. The
first review to which l wrote needed
a shorter novel to bring in between
two long ones. The editor, happy over
his coming promotion in the Legion OF
Honor, interrupted me at once:
" I accept anything on your recon-
mendatiOn, old man. Bring on your
George Sand
Il fastened to send the good news
to Jean Seguin, begging her to send
me the novel at once, as the review
was waiting for it To my keen sur
prise, the young girl did not come to
my Office, nor did she send me any re-
ply. The days passed. l wrote again.
Then I received the following tele-
gram:
Pardon me, monsieur, but pray for
get about my book. My father is very
sick just now and I cannot leave him
for moment
More than a moment passed. The
editor Of the review found another
novel, and l must confess had almost
forgotten Jean Seguin, when one morn
ing Constant brought me her card.
The young girl entered, shook
hands and sat down. There before me
was still the same face, kind and in
telligent, but worn, almost lined, with
WEAKNESS and sorrow. She smiled
sadly.
My father has heart trouble shl
explained, and these attacks are all
ways terrible. But, for the present,
he is out of danger
And The Mortal Test?" Have
you brought me nothing?'
"She looked me straight into my
eyes, bit her lips with amusing hest
tation and then, as repeated my
question, she suddenly burst into a
food of tears. She sobbed, gasping
out the words:
1t is finished-I-I-I can-never
publish it,
AT last, when she grew calmer, she
wiped her eyes and said:
Forgive me, monsieur have
been foolish to give way so-but you
have been SO kind-I owe you an ex-
PLANTATION. l should not like you to
think me fool. Only ask silence on
your part. My real name is Georgette
L.
She told me name that you would
all recognize, the name of a man IA
nous in our fathers time. Bitterly
jealous, he had quarreled with the
other members of his sect and since
then he had lived, solitary and lonely.
with his daughter, or rather she had
supported him.
THE thin, yellow face, the rasping
voice of this wretched man rose be-
fore me as I listened to the voice OF
his daughter. She explained why l
had not received The Mortal Test and
why her novel would never be pub
lished.
Her father, spiteful in his home, as
among his confreres, had always
Knocked the idea of his daughter ever
writing. But, overcome with joy al
the good news I sent her, Georgette
had rashly told the story of her success
to her father.
I thought he would suffocate on
the spot she said, simply. He fell
back in his chair, tearing the collar
of his shirt. For several moments he
could not speak.
When at length he found his voice
he buried me beneath the horror of his
wrath, accusing me of bribing the edi-
tor and yourself, monsieur! Then came
fresh suffocation and for a week his
life was in the greatest danger
Then I arranged with the doctor,
who is one of his old friends and
knows him we'll, story of how my
hopes had been dashed and the editor
, of the Review no longer wanted my
manuscript. Papa saw that I was
heartbroken; it did him good. He grew
slowly better.
Now he is all right, only he sus.
! poets me. He has locked up my manu-
scripts of "The Mortal Test" and he
watches me closely whenever he sees
a pen in my hand
But what will you do?' I asked
her.
What is there left for me? shall
remain a schoolmistress.
"And two big tears rolled slowly
down her cheeks. At her very start
she had met the bitterest enemy of
woman writers in all Paris-her
father!"-From the French, in N Y.
Sun.