Winsome Winnie and other New Nonsense Novels | Page 3

he is
all too richly repaid. If she does that, he is blessed indeed."
"She does. He is!" cried Winnifred, deeply moved. "Here on her knees
she blesses him. And now," she added, "we must part. Seek not to
follow me. One who has aided a poor girl in the hour of need will
respect her wish when she tells him that, alone and buffeted by the
world, her one prayer is that he will leave her."
"He will!" cried the Unknown. "He will. He does."
"Leave me, yes, leave me," exclaimed Winnifred.
"I will," said the Unknown.
"Do, do," sobbed the distraught girl. "Yet stay, one moment more. Let
she, who has received so much from her benefactor, at least know his
name."
"He cannot! He must not!" exclaimed the Indistinguishable. "His birth
is such--but enough!"

He tore his hand from the girl's detaining clasp and rushed forth from
the place.
Winnifred Clair was alone.
CHAPTER III
FRIENDS IN DISTRESS
Winnifred was now in the humblest lodgings in the humblest part of
London. A simple bedroom and sitting-room sufficed for her wants.
Here she sat on her trunk, bravely planning for the future.
"Miss Clair," said the Landlady, knocking at the door, "do try to eat
something. You must keep up your health. See, I've brought you a
kippered herring."
Winnifred ate the herring, her heart filled with gratitude. With renewed
strength she sallied forth on the street to resume her vain search for
employment. For two weeks now Winnifred Clair had sought
employment even of the humblest character. At various dress-making
establishments she had offered, to no purpose, the services of her
needle. They had looked at it and refused it.
In vain she had offered to various editors and publishers the use of her
pen. They had examined it coldly and refused it.
She had tried fruitlessly to obtain a position of trust. The various banks
and trust companies to which she had applied declined her services. In
vain she had advertised in the newspapers offering to take sole charge
of a little girl. No one would give her one.
Her slender stock of money which she had in her purse on leaving Mr.
Bonehead's office was almost consumed.
Each night the unhappy girl returned to her lodging exhausted with
disappointment and fatigue.

Yet even in her adversity she was not altogether friendless.
Each evening, on her return home, a soft tap was heard at the door.
"Miss Clair," said the voice of the Landlady, "I have brought you a
fried egg. Eat it. You must keep up your strength."
Then one morning a terrible temptation had risen before her.
"Miss Clair," said the manager of an agency to which she had applied,
"I am glad to be able at last to make you a definite offer of employment.
Are you prepared to go upon the stage?"
The stage!
A flush of shame and indignation swept over the girl. Had it come to
this? Little versed in the world as Winnifred was, she knew but too well
the horror, the iniquity, the depth of degradation implied in the word.
"Yes," continued the agent, "I have a letter here asking me to
recommend a young lady of suitable refinement to play the part of
Eliza in Uncle Tom's Cabin. Will you accept?"
"Sir," said Winnifred proudly, "answer me first this question fairly. If I
go upon the stage, can I, as Eliza, remain as innocent, as simple as I am
now?"
"You can not," said the manager.
"Then, sir," said Winnifred, rising from her chair, "let me say this.
Your offer is doubtless intended to be kind. Coming from the class you
do, and inspired by the ideas you are, you no doubt mean well. But let a
poor girl, friendless and alone, tell you that rather than accept such a
degradation she will die."
"Very good," said the manager.
"I go forth," cried Winnifred, "to perish."

"All right," said the manager.
The door closed behind her. Winnifred Clair, once more upon the street,
sank down upon the steps of the building in a swoon.
But at this very juncture Providence, which always watches over the
innocent and defenceless, was keeping its eye direct upon Winnifred.
At that very moment when our heroine sank fainting upon the doorstep,
a handsome equipage, drawn by two superb black steeds, happened to
pass along the street.
Its appearance and character proclaimed it at once to be one of those
vehicles in which only the superior classes of the exclusive aristocracy
are privileged to ride. Its sides were emblazoned with escutcheons,
insignia and other paraphernalia. The large gilt coronet that appeared
up its panelling, surmounted by a bunch of huckleberries, quartered in a
field of potatoes, indicated that its possessor was, at least, of the