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This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1894. Excerpt: ... CHAPTER XI. THE STORM CENTRE. A Week had passed of unusual severity for that time of the year. The first snow of the winter had fallen, and in the houses of the idle mill hands, pitifully short of fuel, illness from privation and hunger had begun to add its load to a burden already too hard to bear. The charities of the town were taxed to the utmost, and still failed to meet the constantly increasing demand. Schuyler quietly, without observation, as had long been his wont, went home daily by the way of the dingiest streets, the urchins of the gutter hailing his tall form with shouts of delighted recognition, and guiding him infallibly to the houses where misery crushed with most unrelenting hand. A quiet stream of comfort was continually flowing in, unheralded and unsuspected outside the squalid precincts. There would be a load of coal for Grandfather Jones' failing fire, a physician sent to the baby dying with sudden croup, a bit of money pressed into a thin hand that had searched vainly in a cupboard whose last resources had been drained hours before. In the midst of it all, Schuyler was surprised by an improvident, irresponsible light-heartedness that continually asserted itself the moment the worst of the pressure was removed. A woman barely rescued from starvation by his untiring hand, he found singing gaily the next day, in the midst of her bare-footed brood, as if she had not a care in the world. For the moment she was warmed and fed; that there was no provision for the morrow was not a problem demanding any solution of hers. In another house a man was fiddling by the side of a wife in the last stages of a fatal disease, calmly ready to discuss, in her presence, the symptoms of failure and the probable method of her taking off. Schuyler looked upon...
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