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MY QUEEN

A WEEKLY JOURNAL FOR YOUNG WOMEN

No. 1. PRICE, FIVE CENTS.

FROM FARM TO FORTUNE

OR

Only A Farmer’s Daughter

BY GRACE SHIRLEY

PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY STREET & SMITH, 238 William Street, New York City.

_Copyright, 1900, by Street & Smith. All rights reserved. Entered at
York Post-Office as Second-Class Matter._




MY QUEEN

A WEEKLY JOURNAL FOR YOUNG WOMEN

_Issued Weekly. By Subscription $2.50 per year. Entered as Second Class
Matter at the N. Y. Post Office, by_ Street & Smith, _238 William St.,
N. Y._

_Entered According to Act of Congress in the year 1900, in the Office of
the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C._

No. 1. NEW YORK, September 29, 1900. Price Five Cents.




From Farm to Fortune;

OR,

ONLY A FARMER’S DAUGHTER.

By GRACE SHIRLEY.


CHAPTER I.

THE DAISY CHAIN.

There was hardly a ripple on the sultry air as Marion Marlowe walked
slowly along the dusty country road picking a daisy here and there and
linking them together in an artistic manner.

When the chain was finished she swung it lightly in her hand,
notwithstanding the fact that each link held one of her heart secrets
interwoven in the form of a wish, as she fashioned the frail necklace.

She paused for a moment upon the brow of the steep hill behind her
father’s farm, and pushing the gingham sunbonnet back from her face,
took her usual evening glance over the surrounding country.

“Same old hills! Same old trees!” she whispered irritably. “And always
that hideous old Poor Farm staring one in the face! Oh, I’m just sick
of country life and a horrid farm! Why couldn’t I have been born
something besides a farmer’s daughter?”

The view which Marion gazed upon was not altogether unlovely, but the
hills were steep and the pastures were scorched and the Poor Farm,
always a blot upon the peaceful picture, stood out with aggressive
ugliness in the keen glow of sunset.

Just over the brow of a low hill rose a curling line of smoke. It came
from the chimney of the little station where the Boston and New York
Express stopped morning and evening, the only connecting link between
them and civilization.

Marion Marlowe was seventeen and superbly handsome. Her twin sister
was fairer, more childish and a trifle smaller, but both were far more
beautiful than most country maidens.

As Marion spoke, her gray eyes darkened until they were almost black,
and the ungainly sunbonnet could not begin to cover her hair, which was
long and silky and a rich, ripe chestnut.

Turning her back upon the Poor Farm, which always offended her, Marion
suddenly gave vent to her mood in a most extraordinary manner.

Posing on the very crest of the hill with her shoulders thrown back
haughtily, she began singing a quaint air which was full of solemn
melody, and as she sang her eyes glistened and her cheeks grew even
redder, for Marion loved the sound of her beautiful voice—she knew well
that she was a magnificent singer, and might readily be forgiven for
glorying in her superb natural endowments.

“And to think it should all be wasted here!” she muttered as she
finished.

There was a scornful wave of her hand as she indicated the inoffensive
country.

She pulled on her sunbonnet with a sudden jerk.

“What could she do?” She asked the question hopelessly, and the very
trees seemed to mock her with their rustling whispers.

She could do nothing! She was only a farmer’s daughter! She must bake,
roast and boil, weed the garden, tend the chickens, and last but not
least, she must marry some stupid farmer and live exactly the life that
her mother had lived before her.

“I won’t do it!” she cried, angrily, when she had reached this point in
her thoughts.

“I’ll never submit to it! Never! Never! I will make a name somehow,
somewhere, some time! Do you hear me, you glorious old sun? I will do
it! I swear it!”

With a sudden impulse she lifted her hand above her head. The setting
sun threw a shaft of light directly across her path which clothed her
in a shining radiance as her vow was registered.

The sky was darkening when Marion drew her sunbonnet on again and
started slowly down the hill toward her father’s pasture.

She let down the bars at the entrance to the pasture lot easily with
her strong, white hands. There were five of the patient creatures
awaiting her coming. The sixth had strayed a little, so she strolled
about, calling to it, through the straggling brush and birches.

Suddenly there came the unmistakable patter of bare feet along the
road; Marion listened a moment and then went on with her search.

“Move faster, there, Bert Jackson! What’s the matter with ye, anyway?”

The words were shouted in a brutal voice which Marion knew only too
well to belong to Matt Jenkins, the keeper of the Poor Farm.

“I am moving as fast as I can,” answered a boyish voice, “but my arm