CHAPTER XIII.

MARION’S FIRST ENGAGEMENT AS A SINGER.

At the very moment in which Marion opened her lips to sing two men turned the corner of the street, walking directly toward the preacher.

One was a man of thirty, of Hebrew origin, whose affluent circumstances were plainly apparent.

The other was a German, well dressed, but vulgar in appearance, and wearing a diamond stud that resembled the headlight of an engine.

“I tell you, we’d beat them hands down if it wasn’t for Carlotta,” the German was saying. “We open the same night, and we’ve got to beat them! And we can do it if we can get one more first-class singer.”

“If I could only have got Carlotta to sing my song,” said his companion, sighing, “it would have been the hit of the evening, but it was just my luck not to get her.”

“She’s their winning card,” began the German again, but with a sudden exclamation his companion interrupted him.

“Great Jerusalem, Otto, just hear that voice! Who the mischief is she? Quick! She’s down here with that preacher!”

“A regular Patti!” cried the German, hurrying.

“Bosh! Patti isn’t in it with that girl!” was the answer. “Why, her voice is like a lark—it’s as fresh as a wild flower! And that’s about what she is,” he added as he caught sight of the singer.

Both men stood spellbound as Marion finished the hymn. They had removed their hats almost involuntarily as they listened.

As Marion’s last note died away she looked around in embarrassment. The spell of exaltation had left her—she was almost frightened.

“Thank you,” said Mr. Haley in his cordial way. “That was a treat, indeed, and the hymn is a grand one.”

“I couldn’t help singing,” said Marion, simply. “It is one of our old hymns that we sing up in the country.”

The crowd stared at her curiously as she turned away, and would probably have applauded had not the preacher objected.

“No! No! Not now! Not at this time!” he said, smiling. “The child is a friend of mine; she only did it to help me.”

“She’ll make more converts than you will, Mr. Haley!” called a jovial voice in the crowd.

The preacher laughed good-naturedly as he answered.

“I hope she will, I am sure, Mr. Smythe. It would be a pity if that voice could not cheer the soul of some poor sinner.”

Marion was hurrying away, when two men stepped up to her.

“I beg your pardon, miss,” said Marcus Rosen, the song writer, politely, “I have just been listening to your beautiful singing. You have a magnificent voice. Pray tell me who trained it.”

Marion looked up at him sharply and saw the eagerness in his face.

“It has never been trained, sir, by any one,” she said, simply. “I sing as I feel—I know nothing of method.”

“Well, you are one in a thousand,” said the man again. “But tell me, are you engaged to sing anywhere at present? Would you accept an offer if my friend here should make you one?”

Marion stared at the speaker in blank amazement. She could hardly believe that such good fortune could come to her.

“I will, indeed,” she said, very timidly; “but as I told you at first, I know nothing about singing.”

The German, whose name was Otto Vondergrift, took a card from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Call on me to-morrow morning at ten o’clock,” he said. “I have a little song that I want you to learn, and then if you will sing it at my opening concert I will give you one hundred dollars.”

Marion tried to thank him, but burst out crying.

“I will be there without fail,” she finally managed to stammer.

“You could have got her for a tenspot, Otto,” said the younger man as they walked along. “Can’t you see, she’s from the country and mighty hard up? You must be getting a little reckless with your ducats.”

“Perhaps so,” said Vondergrift, smiling, “but maybe you will find that I am wiser than you. That girl’s voice is phenomenal. She will make a fortune for me! And she’s just green enough, my boy, to think that I’m an angel.”

“You mean that she’ll appreciate your handsome offer so highly that the manager of the ‘Olio’ will not be able to buy her over! Well, if she does she’ll be the first singer to do it,” was the answer, “and after she sings for you one night she’ll have plenty of offers.”

“That’s exactly why I made my price so high,” said Vondergrift again; “I have anticipated these offers and bagged my prima donna!”

“You may be right,” said the other, slowly, “and, anyway, it’s your money, not mine. She certainly can sing, and that is what we are after. Why, Carlotta is a mere croaker compared with our rustic.”

Marion sped home like the wind to carry the good news to Dollie, and for a time the two girls were almost radiantly happy.

In the first mail the next morning Marion received a letter. It was from her sister Samantha, the first she had had from her.

“Father must be relenting,” she said, with a bitter smile, “or else Samantha has at last found courage to defy his orders.”

She glanced over the letter and then almost screamed in surprise.

“Oh, Dollie! Here is news, indeed! I know now why Silas wanted to marry you so badly. He’s been buying chickens and pigs, and is going to fatten them for market, and of course he is desperately in need of a household drudge, and at last he has married poor, homely, Sallie Green! I guess he despaired of ever getting a prettier woman!”

“Poor Sallie!” cried Dollie, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t envy her a lifetime in Silas Johnson’s kitchen!”

“And to think that he tried to make you feel that he was doing you a favor by asking you to marry him,” sneered Marion, “when all he wanted was a drudge for his kitchen!”

“I hope he will be good to her,” said Dollie, very earnestly.

“I wonder what father will do about that mortgage now,” was Marion’s only answer. “He can’t trade you off to settle it now, so it begins to look as if he’d have to raise the money.”

“Oh, there’s no hope for him now,” said Dollie, sighing. “They’ll be turned out surely, and have to live with Samantha.”

“But Samantha’s husband won’t have them,” was Marion’s prompt answer, “which means that they’ll be forced to go to the Poor Farm.”

The two girls stared at each other with expressions of horror. It was a terrible thought—they could hardly endure it.

Bert Jackson came in and found them both weeping bitterly. He had brought Marion the ten dollars which she loaned him on the night of his escape from the Poor Farm, and the money looked like a fortune to the poor girls in their destitute condition.

When Marion told him of the letter which she had written to Matt Jenkins poor Bert was so delighted that he nearly went into hysterics.

“I never dreamed that it would be such fun to be dead,” he said, gayly, “but now I can breathe easy. Matt won’t be trying to chase a deader. And I’ve got a job, too,” he said, delightedly. “Eight dollars a week as clerk in a grocery store!”

“We’ll come and buy our potatoes and other things of you,” laughed Dollie; “that is, if Marion gets a steady place to sing for those people, and as soon as I get real well I’ll keep house for both of you.”

“That would be glorious,” said Bert, “but I’m afraid it won’t work. There’s a young man whom I know who might object, Miss Dollie.”

Dollie blushed as she was reminded so broadly of her sweetheart, and Marion explained to Bert the whole situation.

“He’s a noble fellow! I don’t much care what he did!” cried Bert in admiration; “I’d steal, too, if it was to keep you girls from starving, and I think a man is a cad who says he wouldn’t!”

“Oh, Bert! That isn’t right!” said Marion, firmly. “Of course, we forgive him, but, oh, he shouldn’t have done it! It is awful to steal from any motive! I shall give him every penny of my hundred dollars.”

Dollie drew a long breath, and the tears sprang to her eyes.

“We have not seen him since—since we became suspicious,” she said, very hesitatingly. “Poor fellow! He must be wretched, and yet he knows that we forgive him!”