“I mean to,” said Mary firmly. “I want to; and I am going to begin with this one, ‘Shakespeare the Boy.’ I feel as if that was what she meant me to do.”
As she said this Mary began to turn over the leaves of the book in which she had found the note from Aunt Nan. “The story sounds very nice,” she said.
Just then something fell from between the leaves and fluttered to the floor. Her father stooped to pick it up.
“Aunt Nan’s bookmark,” he said. “It would be nice to keep her marks when you can, Mary. Why!” he exclaimed suddenly, staring at what he held in his fingers. It was long and yellow, and printed on both sides.
“Mary!” he cried, “did you ever see one of these before? I have never seen many of them myself, more’s the pity!” And he handed the “bookmark” to his daughter.
It was a hundred-dollar bill.
“Papa!” gasped Mary, “whose is it?”
“It is yours, Mary, just as much as the watch and chain were; just as much as the library is,” said her father. “Everything in the room was to be yours; Aunt Nan said so in her will. This is certainly a part of your legacy. I wonder if Aunt Nan forgot it or put it there on purpose, as another of her little jokes?”
“I think she put it there on purpose,” said John. “My! But she was a queer old lady!”
“I think she was a very nice old lady,” said Mary. “Now I must go and tell Katy Summers about it.”