A Wonderful Secret, or Marion Marlowe's Discovery — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

MY QUEEN. 3 wt! It’s from Marion, I'll bet, an’ I’m obleeged ter ye fer bringin’ it!” He tore the envelope open with shaking hands, while his wife stood by twisting her apron nervously. It seemed an age before the dispatch was | read, and Bill Bennett stood waiting for the news with his mouth wide open. Then something happened in the old kitchen that never happened there before, and it set every shining pan on the wide dresser to jingling. : The*old farmer let out a whoop of genuine joy and did the first few steps of a Highland fling, while he waved the telegram in a transport of jubilation. | “Whoop! She’s comin’! She’s comin’! he yelled, at the top of his lungs. “Git out an’ tell everybody in Hickorytown, Bill! Our Marion’s got er fortune an’ she’s comin’ home tew spend it!” CHAPTER II. "MARION’S ARRIVAL. Bill Bennett obeyed orders with such won- derful conscientiousness that long before the, New York train drew into the Hickory- town station the next day nearly every per- son in the village was there to meet it. And, as the train thundered toward the _ town, a beautiful young girl, clad in an ex- quisite spring gown, with a stylish hat perched upon her magnificent hair, peered eagerly from the windows of the drawing- room car and pointed out familiar objects to her two companions. “Oh, I can hardly wait until we get there, I am so impatient!” she said, laughingly. “See, there’s the church spire, Bert, and Farmer Day’s big windmill, and, yes, I be- lieve I can see the smoke from the poor farm! QOh, dear! That horrid farm! I hate it as much as ever! I never thought of it as anything but a blot upon the landscape!” The laughing face had clouded instantly and the young lady who occupied the next chair leaned toward her sympathetically. “And so this is really Hickorytown, Marion?” she asked, gayly. “If it is, I am ready to make my very best bow! To think that I am about to visit your birthplace!” “And mine, too, Alma! Please don’t for- get me!” called out a boyish voice, as Bert Jackson drew his head in from another win- dow. “ | “It doesn’t seem possible,” went on Alma Allyn, with a poor attempt to be jolly, “to think of one little place like this turning out two such celebrities! Why, my little West- ern town can only boast of me, or, at least, if there were any others, I never heard of them.” “Oh, you are as good as a dozen, Alma,” laughed Bert; then he gave a whoop of de- hight as he caught a glimpse of the little sta- tion. “Gee whiz! There they are, the whole blooming lot of them! Do look at them, Marion! They must have heard you were coming! Well, just wait until they catch sight of yours truly; they’ll all go into con- vulsions!”’ Marion was straining her eyes now to scan the familiar figures and, as the engine gave its last warning “toot,” her cheeks flushed with excitement. Miss Allyn wiped away the steam upon the window pane and gazed out curiously. There seemed to be a perfect swam of coun- try people thtonging the little station. “They’ve all turned out to welcome you home, dearie,” she said, gayly, “and, oh, what a jolly lot they are, to be sure! Do look at that funny old man with the red bandana, Marion! Good gracious sakes alive, dearie, is that your father?” Miss Allyn had just turned and caught sight of the look upon Marion’s face, but the train had stopped now and there was no time for an answer. “Hurrah for Hickorytown! I’m as glad to get back to it as I was to leave it! Now. here goes for a shock to that small mob of natives! Every one of ’em thinks I am dead! Just watch me fool ’em!” Bert made a bound for the door as he spoke, and both girls followed him. They were as anxious as he was to see what would happen. “You remember I wrote Matt Jenkins, the Overseer at the poor farm ” began Ma- rion, but she could get no farther. Her townspeople had caught sight of Bert and were fairly gasping with astonishment CORnnicisooks.€©