The Abbeville press and banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1869-1924, 1881-03-16

heard YOU were one of the kindest of
men. Is there nothing you q give me
to do, Mr.. Gray? I can read the most
illegible of writing readily-a talent [
inherit from my dear father-and 1 can
copy rapidly and plainly"
Now, I had nothing on hand which it
was absolutely necessary that I should
have copied, but a vision of the poor
child toiling up dark stairs into cheer
less offices, cold and frightened, with
that, in its present form, unstable story,
rose before me, and I determined to
make work for her until I could find her
some easy, permanent employment else
where. So I said quickly, as though it
were the very assistance of all others of
which I stood in need, eff you are will
ing to accept work of that kind, I can
employ you two or three hours a day for
a month or two, and you may begin at
once"
Her eyes sparlled the thanks she did
not speak. l babe her lay aside her
hat and shawl, seat herself ct the chiefs
desk, and prepare to copy the Chinese
like characters of the famous author
over which I had been puzzling the day
before.
She obeyed me with the simplicity of
o child, and was soon bending over her
task, a flush of pleasure on her cheeks,
transcribing quickly and faithfully.
As for me, the sight of that tiny hard
travelling over the paper with wonderful
grace and case, and the clear-cut profile
dropping above it, caused some ie&i-
! crous mistakes in the article I was wr1e4,
about which mistakes I received no less
than seventeen communications during
the week following its publication.
The two or three hours passed away.
She showed me what she had accom-
plished with pride, accepted payment
for it with a blush, donned the summer
shawl and hat, and tnpped away, prom
Using to come again on the morrow. The
morrow found her %punctually at her post,
and so did many morrows, and at last
the MS. vas almost copied, and I had
been unable to find any other employ
ment for my faithful little amanuensis,
! Meanwhile the child had told me her
sad story. Her mother died at her
birth. She had never had any home.
but had always livedin boarding-houses
with her father, q s~choolteacher, who,
dying a year ago, left her to the mercy
of IN only relative, a wealthy aunt.
That aunt--heaven forgive her!-re-
fused to receive her, saying she had
/" children of her own to look after, and
saw no reason why the girl should
not follow her fathers profession"
81 tried to-" said Winona, "but the
| children would not mind me. Minnie
Minceitt minds me, because she loves
me. I board with Mrs. Minceitt, and
teach Minnie in part payment for my
board. Mrs. Minceitt is not unkind to
me; but she is not as kind IS she was
before papa died. And papa used to
say I wrote excellent compositions, and
so I thought, perhaps, I could write
| stories for the papers. And I was in
duced to come to you first by hearing a
| gentleman, O writer, praise you very
highly one day. He is one of the
kindest-hearted fellows in America, he
said. But, for all that, I came to your
door three days in succession before l
could get courage enough to knock.
And when T did knock on the fourth
day, You called Come in such an
awfully cross voice that I came near
running away again. And on n of those
three days, when I was standing out
side, you were laughing and talking
with a handsome young lady. I heard
you, and saw her. She had the lowell
est ostrich feather in her hat"
"And what has become of the story,
Winona :" asked I. She had rebelled
against "Miss Silver" or even mis-
Winona," OF an early period OF our &C.
quaintaIce, on account of my being so
! much older than she. I was eight-and-
twenty, and she ten years younger.
"My story with a musical laugh
(which YOU altered until it was almost
your story? I sent it to the Weekly Ro-
nance Portfolio, and they accepted it
and well they might, for, thanks to
you, it was very good indeed. And they
sent me q check for ia very short
check for such a long story-and there
it is" pointing to a cloth jacket that
hung beside my %overcoat. "And now
that you've mentioned the story" she
continued, all her old shyness coming
back again, 81 should like to show you
but I am afraid"
"Nonsense, Winona, You are not
afraid. What is it"
"a poem of mine, if it deserves that
title :" and she pushed q paper across
the desk to me.
Iunfolded it, and a really pretty little
poem, which, however, in spite of its
prettiness, I found as unsuitable Tor
our paper as the story had been. After
reading it, I sat apparently buried in
thought, conscious that Winona was
stealing a glance at me every now and
then from under her long lashes, but in
reality puzzling my brain, as I had a
hundred times before, as to what was to
become of the poor, pretty, frank, in,
nocent girl, left alone to battle with the
world.
"By Jove" I exclaimed aloud, "its
too bad"
els it so very bad she asked, in
faltering tones.
II wasn't referring to your verses,
Winona. They are very good indeed,
MY should say Winona."
"And you will accept them"
parted the question with another.
In a fash, my heart had been revealed
to me.
"Winona, will you write o valentine
for me? never could do anything in
the way of rhymes myself"
II shall be glad to do So" her voice
trembling a little. els it to be to the
handsome ostrich feather ?--I mean te
the handsome young lady with the
ostrich featherY
"Perhaps. Take a sheet of paper anG
set down in prose what you are to turn
into poetry. Tell her that the first time
I saw her my heart owned her for it
queen; that since that bright and happ.
day she has never been absent from m,
thoughts; that I love her with sinccres
love, and long to hear her say that sh'
loves me-"
The little maiden grew paler ant
nsler as she wrote. and when she ha<