"'On the road to Mandalay,Where the old flotilla lay.'"
"It's Jim coming with the mail," cried Marjorie joyfully; "I should know his voice anywhere, and that's his favorite song. Oh, I wonder if there will be an answer to Father's letter to Miss Brent. What's the matter, Undine?"
For Undine, who was still standing by Miss Graham's chair, had suddenly grown pale, and a strange, startled expression had come into her face.
"Who's Jim?" she demanded sharply.
"Only one of Father's men. He used to be a cow-puncher in Texas. I think you must have seen him; he's about the ranch a good deal."
The hoof-beats were drawing nearer, and the rider had begun another verse of his song.
"'Er petticoat was yaller,An' 'er little cap was green,An' 'er name was Supy Yawler,Jes' the same as Thebaw's queen.'"
"I know that song," cried Undine excitedly, clasping and unclasping her hands, and she began reciting in a dreamy, far-away voice:
"'An' I see 'er first a smokin'Of a whackin' big sheroot,An' wastin' Christian kissesOn a 'eathen idol's foot.'
"Somebody used to sing it. Who was it? Oh, tell me quick; I must remember, I must, I must!"
She turned imploringly to Miss Graham and Marjorie, but the two blank, puzzled faces gave her no help, and with a low cry, the poor child covered her face with her hands, and began to sob. Marjorie's kind arms were round her friend in a moment, but it was no easy task to stem the torrent of Undine's grief.
"Oh, help me to remember, please, please do help me!" she wailed, between hysterical sobs and gasps. "I almost remembered, and now it's all gone again. Oh, what shall I do—what shall I do?"
"You'll remember it all some time, dear, I know you will," soothed Marjorie, crying herself from pure sympathy. "Do try not to mind quite so much, Undine. I know it must be terrible, but we're all so sorry for you, and we'll try to make you happy, indeed we will."
By this time horse and rider had reached the ranch house, and Jim Hathaway, a freckled, red-haired youth, had sprung to the ground, and was regarding the scene in undisguised astonishment.
"Have you brought us any letters to-day, Jim?" Miss Graham asked, by way of relieving the situation.
"Yes'm; there's two for Mr. Graham, and some newspapers, and a magazine."
"Ask him where he learned that song," whispered Undine to Marjorie. She was still trembling, and seemed very much agitated.
"Where did you learn that song you were singing just now, Jim?" Marjorie inquired, eagerly; "the one about the 'Road to Mandalay,' you know?"
Jim looked rather vague.
"Blessed if I remember," he said. "I picked it up somewhere, but I couldn't rightly say where it was."
"Won't you please try to remember?" said Undine, lifting her tear-stained face from Marjorie's shoulder. "I want very much to know. I am trying to remember something about it, and if you could tell me where you learned it it might help me."
Jim stared at her rather stupidly; then his face brightened.
"I guess I do remember, now I come to think of it," he said slowly. "It was in Texas. There was an English chap there, who was foreversinging it. I picked it up from him. There were a lot of verses to it but I don't know 'em all."
Undine shook her head hopelessly.
"Thank you," she said; "I don't believe I was ever in Texas." And without another word, she turned and went into the house.
It was more than an hour later when Mrs. Graham knocked softly at the door of the little room which had been given to the strange guest. She waited a moment, and then, receiving no answer, turned the handle and went in. Undine was lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She was so still that Mrs. Graham thought she must be asleep, and was turning away again when there was a slight movement on the bed, and with a long sigh, the girl lifted her head.
At sight of her hostess, Undine sprang to her feet, and began pushing the tumbled hair back from her eyes. She was very white, and there was a drawn, suffering look on her face, which went to Mrs. Graham's motherly heart.
"I beg your pardon," said Undine, humbly. "I'm afraid you must all think me very silly and troublesome. I didn't mean to make a fuss, but when I heard that boy singing 'Mandalay' it seemed for just a minute as if I were going to remembersomething, and then it was all gone again. I thought that perhaps if I lay very still with my eyes shut tight, and thought as hard as I could, it might come again, but it didn't."
"Sit down, dear," said Mrs. Graham, kindly, and seating herself on the edge of the bed, she drew Undine down beside her. "Does your head ache?"
"It aches dreadfully," confessed Undine, pressing her hand to her forehead. "It always does when I try very hard to remember."
"I was afraid so. It isn't good for you to try to remember in this way; it won't help things at all, and may make them much worse. You must promise me not to try to think so hard again. When your memory comes back it will come naturally, and without any forcing. Now I want to talk to you about something quite different. Mr. Graham has had a letter from the 'Home For The Friendless' at Oakland, and another from your friend Miss Brent, or Mrs. Rogers, as I believe she is now."
"What did they say?" inquired Undine, languidly. She seemed too much exhausted to take much interest in letters.
"Mrs. Rogers spoke kindly of you, and seemed pleased to know where you are. Her sister hadtelegraphed her of your disappearance. She said she hoped you would find a good home, for she was afraid nothing would induce Mrs. Hicks to take you back. They remembered you at the 'Home,' too, and are willing to have you there again if we will pay your expenses back to California."
"But I don't want to go back there," protested Undine, lifting her head, and speaking more like her old self. "Oh, Mrs. Graham, must I go? Can't I stay here? I'll do anything you want me to, and I can work hard, just wait and see if I can't."
Mrs. Graham smiled as she glanced at the soft little hands, which did not look as though their owner were capable of much hard work.
"That is just what we have been talking about," she said. "I should be glad of a little extra help in the house; Juanita isn't as young as she once was, and I want to give Marjorie a little more time for study. So if you think you would really care to stay with us, and are willing to work for small wages—"
"Wages!" cried Undine indignantly; "I don't want any money; I only want to stay with you, and work for my board. You're all so kind, and ... and I think you must be more like the peopleI used to live with than Miss Brent and Mrs. Hicks were. Oh, if I could only remember!"
"There, there, we won't talk any more about remembering just now," interrupted Mrs. Graham cheerfully. "You shall stay with us, at least for the present, and who knows what may happen in the future. Now lie down again, and try to take a nap before supper. You look very tired, and a good sleep will do your head more good than anything else." And yielding to a sudden impulse, Mrs. Graham stooped and kissed the flushed face on the pillow, almost as tenderly as if this strange, friendless little waif had been her own Marjorie.
"Ofall the different kinds of housework, I think pickling is the most disagreeable!"
Marjorie made this remark as she came into her aunt's room one glorious October afternoon. Miss Graham's room was the prettiest and most luxurious in the ranch house. Every comfort which limited income and inaccessible surroundings could afford had been procured for the invalid, and to Marjorie, after a hard day's work of helping her mother and Juanita in the yearly pickling, it seemed a very haven of rest and comfort. Miss Graham herself, in a pretty pink wrapper, was lying on the sofa, while Undine read aloud to her. She was a very different Undine from the pale, timid girl of two months before. The thin cheeks had filled out wonderfully, and the big brown eyes had almost entirely lost their expression of frightened bewilderment, for Undine had found her place in the household and was happy. I have my doubts as to whether Undinewould have proved of great use in the kitchen, her knowledge of any kind of housework being decidedly limited, but before she had been in her new home a fortnight Miss Graham was taken ill. It was not a serious illness, though a tedious and painful one, and almost from the first moment Undine had established herself as nurse. Her devotion was touching; it was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to leave the invalid's bedside even for the necessary rest and exercise, and she would gladly have worked night and day in the service of gentle Miss Graham, who almost unconsciously grew to love the girl, and to depend upon her more than she would have believed possible in so short a time.
Now Miss Graham was better, and the task of nursing was almost at an end, but she was still weak, and Mr. and Mrs. Graham were thankful for the willing service of the girl whom they had taken into their home on account of her friendless condition and her big honest brown eyes.
"You don't know what you two people have been spared to-day," continued Marjorie, throwing herself wearily into the rocking-chair. "Thank goodness, they're all done, and we shall have pickles enough to last another year."
"We haven't been spared the smell," said MissGraham, laughing. "I really felt at one time to-day that I would gladly forego pickles for the rest of my life."
"What have you been reading?" Marjorie inquired, with a glance at the book Undine had put down on her entrance.
"'Lorna Doone.' We have had a delightful afternoon. It is such a charming story, and Undine reads aloud remarkably well."
Marjorie glanced out of the window, at the brilliant autumn sunshine.
"I think I'll go for a ride, to get the smell of the pickles out of my nostrils," she said. "Mother says she won't need me any more to-day."
"That's a good idea," said Miss Graham approvingly, "and suppose you take Undine with you? She has been indoors all day; the fresh air will do her good."
"All right," assented Marjorie, well pleased. "Come along, Undine," she added, rising; "we'll have time for a good gallop before supper."
Undine hesitated.
"Are you sure you can spare me?" she asked, with an anxious glance at the pale face on the pillow.
"Quite sure, dear. I shall not need anything,and even if I should Mrs. Graham and Juanita are both within call. So run along, you conscientious little nurse, and enjoy yourself for the rest of the afternoon."
Undine blushed with pleasure at the compliment, and five minutes later she and Marjorie were on their way to the stables.
It was one of those glorious autumn days, when the air is like a tonic, and every object stands out with almost startling clearness.
"The mountains look so near to-day, it seems almost as if we might ride to them, doesn't it?" remarked Undine, as the two girls trotted out of the ranch gates on their ponies; Undine sitting as straight, and riding with almost as much ease as Marjorie herself.
"They are nearly a hundred miles away," said Marjorie, with a glance in the direction of the great snow-tipped mountains, which certainly did look very near in that wonderful atmosphere. "We could go there, though, if we had an automobile. What wonderful things automobiles must be."
"I suppose they are—there were plenty of them in California—but nothing could be half as nice as a gallop in this wonderful air. A pony like this is worth all the automobiles in SanFrancisco." And Undine bestowed an affectionate pat on the neck of the pretty brown horse she was riding.
"I believe you love riding as much as I do," said Marjorie, sympathetically. "I wonder where you learned to ride. I shall never forget how astonished Father and I were that first day, when we made you get on a pony just for fun, and you took the reins, and started off as if you had been accustomed to riding every day of your life."
There was a trace of the old shadow in Undine's face as she answered:
"It's all very strange, and I can't explain it, but it seemed quite natural, and as if I had done it often before. Even when the pony jumped, and your father thought I would be frightened, I wasn't. I seemed to know just what to do, though I couldn't tell how I knew."
"Perhaps you lived on a ranch once," Marjorie suggested. "That would explain it."
Undine shook her head.
"I don't think so," she said, "for when I first came here it was all quite strange, and though I'm not a bit afraid of horses, I'm horribly afraid of cows. A girl who had lived long on a ranch couldn't be afraid of cows, could she?"
Marjorie assented, and the two girls rode on in silence for several minutes. Then Undine spoke again.
"There's another curious thing that I haven't told you. That book I'm reading to your aunt—'Lorna Doone,' you know—I'm sure I've read it before. I know what is going to happen in every chapter."
Marjorie looked much interested.
"Have you told Aunt Jessie about it?" she asked.
"No, I was afraid it might bother her. I don't think she or your mother like to have me talk about the things I remember."
"That's only because they're afraid you will worry and make yourself ill," Marjorie explained. "You remember what a dreadful headache you had the day you heard Jim singing 'Mandalay.' They're really tremendously interested."
"Are they?" said Undine, looking pleased. "I was afraid they thought me silly. At first I know they thought I was a fraud, and I'm sure I don't blame them. How could any one believe such a queer story? And yet it's all true, every word."
"They believe it now, at any rate," said Marjorie,"and they're just as much interested as I am. Mother says she can't help worrying when she thinks of your friends, and how they may be grieving for you."
"Miss Brent said she didn't believe I had any friends or they would have come to look for me," said Undine sadly.
"But you must have belonged to somebody," persisted Marjorie, "and it isn't likely all your family were killed in the earthquake, even if some of them were. Then you do remember some things—there was the person who sang 'Mandalay.'"
"But I can't remember who it was; I only know there was somebody who used to sing it. I almost remembered for a minute that day, but it was gone in a flash, and it has never come back since."
"Well, don't let's talk any more about worrying things this glorious afternoon," broke in Marjorie, noticing the troubled sound in her friend's voice. "Let's have a good gallop, and forget everything else. Come along, Roland."
Away flew Roland, admonished by a gentle tap from his mistress, and he was followed closely by Undine's pony. The next half hour was one of unalloyed enjoyment to both girls. Thequick motion, the bright sunshine, the keen air, all conspired to banish thoughts of care or perplexity from Undine's mind, and to bring the bright color into her cheeks. Marjorie, glancing over her shoulder at her friend, suddenly realized what a very pretty girl Undine was. Even the khaki skirt and the sombrero, counterparts of Marjorie's own, could not detract from her beauty, and she sat on her pony with as much grace as any lady in the land.
"There! wasn't that great?" exclaimed Marjorie, drawing Roland in at last, and turning to her friend, with sparkling eyes. "I don't believe you ever had a finer gallop than that in your life."
"I don't believe I ever did," agreed Undine, straightening her sombrero, and pushing back the tumbled hair from her eyes. "Must we go back now?"
"I'm afraid so. Father and Mother don't like to have me stay out after sunset. Look at the mountains; they seem just as near as ever, don't they? And yet we've been riding straight away from them all the time."
"Isn't it still?" whispered Undine, with a deep breath. "I feel as if I ought to whisper, though I don't know why. I don't suppose there's anotherliving soul within miles of us, and yet I'm not the least bit afraid."
"There is, though," exclaimed Marjorie, in sudden astonishment. "Look at that man. Where can he be going?" And she pointed with her whip-handle to a solitary figure, carrying a suit-case, which was slowly advancing in their direction. "He isn't an Indian or a Mexican, either," she added eagerly; "he's a white man, and he must be on his way to the ranch. Nobody who isn't coming to the ranch ever takes this road."
"Perhaps he's a tramp," suggested Undine nervously. "We'd better hurry home."
But Marjorie scorned the suggestion.
"Nonsense," she said indignantly. "The idea of wanting to run away! Besides, we can't; he's making signs to us to wait for him. He wants to speak to us."
Undine did not feel at all sure of the wisdom of this proceeding, but there seemed nothing else to do, and in a few moments the stranger, who had quickened his pace at sight of the two girls, was within speaking distance. He was plentifully besprinkled with dust, and was looking decidedly warm and tired, but his appearance and manner were those of a gentleman.
"Excuse me for detaining you," he said, apologetically, "but can you tell me how far I am from Mr. Donald Graham's ranch?"
"I thought you must be coming to the ranch," said Marjorie, with a friendly smile; "it's about five miles from here."
"Five miles," repeated the stranger in a tone of dismay, and he set down the heavy suit-case he was carrying, and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Have you been walking far?" Marjorie inquired sympathetically.
"Yes, I think I must have walked at least five miles already. My team broke down, one of the wheels came off, and the man who was driving me out to the ranch seemed to think the only thing to be done was to leave the wagon with my trunk on it by the roadside while he returned to town on horseback, to get another trap. He advised me to walk on, but I had no idea of the distance. Will you please tell me if this is the shortest way to the ranch?"
"It's the only way," said Marjorie, smiling, and thinking that this tall, broad-shouldered man must certainly be "a tenderfoot." Her own father thought nothing of a ten-mile tramp over the prairie.
"Then I suppose there is no help for it, but five miles—are you sure it's as much as five miles?"
Marjorie nodded; she was trying to think of some way of helping the stranger out of his difficulty. But it was finally he himself who put into words the very suggestion she was going to make.
"I wonder if by any chance you young ladies happen to be going as far as the ranch," he said, with a rather curious glance at the two figures, sitting astride their ponies.
"We're going straight there now," said Marjorie, eagerly, "and if you don't mind waiting, I'll ask Father to send a horse for you."
"You are very kind, but do you think he could possibly send a wagon as well? I am not much of a horseman."
This certainly was a "tenderfoot," and no mistake, but Marjorie was too polite to laugh.
"All right," she said, "I'll see about it, but it will take longer to wait for a team to be hitched up."
"That can't be helped. I'm afraid I'm not equal to another five miles on foot. Do you know Mr. Graham?"
Marjorie laughed.
"Of course I do," she said in her frank, friendly way; "he's my father."
"Your father!" repeated the gentleman, his face lighting up; "why, you don't mean to tell me you are little Marjorie?"
"I'm Marjorie Graham, but I'm not very little. I'm five feet, three, and I was fourteen last March."
"Well, you were about two feet, three when I last saw you," said the gentleman, smiling; "so you must forgive me for not recognizing you at once. Have you ever heard of your uncle Henry Carleton?"
With a joyous exclamation, impulsive Marjorie sprang from her pony and leaving the faithful Roland to his own devices, rushed to her uncle's side, holding out both hands.
"Of course I have!" she cried, lifting her radiant face for the expected kiss. "Oh, Uncle Henry, I'm so glad you've come to see us at last; Mother will be so happy."
Although somewhat surprised by the warmth of this greeting, Mr. Carleton was not at all displeased. Indeed, he was smiling very pleasantly by the time he had given his niece the kiss she was evidently expecting, and his face softened as he regarded her more attentively.
"I ought to have known you, Marjorie," he said, "for you are very like your mother."
Marjorie flushed with pleasure.
"I'm glad," she said; "I'd rather look like Mother than any one else. Is Elsie with you?"
"Elsie? You know about my little girl, too, then?"
"Oh, yes, indeed; I know she is just about my age. Mother has a photograph of her, taken when she was a baby, and I've always wished I could see her. Having a cousin of one's own age must be almost as good as having a sister. Oh, I do hope she's coming to the ranch!"
Mr. Carleton shook his head.
"Elsie and her mother were with me, but they have gone back to New York. We have been through the Canadian Rockies and the Yosemite together, and yesterday we stopped at the Grand Canyon. Your aunt and cousin have gone on in the train, but I thought I would like a few days with your mother, so I got off at the nearest station to the ranch, and was driving out. I suppose I should have written, but I thought I would rather enjoy giving your mother a surprise. I hope I sha'n't be in the way."
"No, indeed, you won't," declared Marjorie heartily. "Mother and Father will be delighted,and so will Aunt Jessie. We so seldom have visitors, and it's such a treat, but I'm dreadfully sorry Aunt Julia and Elsie aren't coming, too. What a lucky girl Elsie is to have seen all those wonderful places! Father is going to take Mother and me to the Canyon some day when he can afford it. But I was so glad to see you that I forgot to introduce my friend. Undine, this is my uncle, Mr. Carleton.
"Uncle Henry, this is my friend, Miss Undine—we don't know her other name."
Undine—who had been watching proceedings with interest—smiled shyly, and held out her hand. She had also dismounted from her pony, and was holding him by the bridle.
"Undine," repeated Mr. Carleton, looking amused, as he took the girl's hand, and regarded her curiously; "that is a rather unusual name, isn't it?"
Undine blushed, and looked embarrassed, and Marjorie hastened to explain.
"It isn't her real name, but she didn't like being called Sally, so we thought we would call her Undine until she remembers what her name is. It's a very interesting story, Uncle Henry, but I won't stop to tell it now, for it's getting late, and I must hurry home as fast as I can, and haveFather send a team for you. I wish you could ride my pony; I wouldn't mind walking the five miles a bit."
"That's a nice little girl of Susie's," Mr. Carleton remarked to himself, as the ponies and their riders disappeared in a cloud of dust. "She has her mother's eyes and friendly ways, but—well, perhaps it was just as well I couldn't persuade Julia to stop over at the ranch. I doubt if Marjorie and Elsie would hit it off very well together."
Mr. Carletonreceived a hearty welcome at the ranch. Mr. and Mrs. Graham were not the sort of people to remember old grievances; Mrs. Graham was honestly glad to see her brother, and they were both quite willing to let bygones be bygones. So the visitor found the meeting with his sister and her husband a much less embarrassing one than he had expected, and the days at the ranch passed so pleasantly that he was easily persuaded to prolong his stay from a day or two to a week, and then to a fortnight. He and his sister had more than one long confidential talk, and although no word of complaint was uttered, Mr. Carleton was clever enough to read between the lines, and it was after one of these talks that he wrote a letter to his wife in New York, for an answer to which he was anxiously waiting.
It was on an afternoon in the second week of his visit that Mr. Carleton sauntered out on to the porch, to find Marjorie alone, and busily engaged in trimming a hat.
"Where are all the others?" he inquired, throwing himself rather wearily into the rocker by her side. "I've been writing letters all the afternoon, and haven't heard a sound in the house."
"They are all out," said Marjorie. "Father wanted Mother to see some colts he is thinking of buying, and Aunt Jessie has gone with them, for the sake of the drive. Undine has gone, too."
"And how does it happen that you were left behind, like Cinderella. Wasn't there room in the wagon?"
"Oh, I could have squeezed in, or else ridden Roland, but I was too busy. I'm making a new hat, and that's always a very absorbing occupation. Don't you think it's going to be pretty?" And Marjorie held up the plain straw hat, trimmed with blue ribbon, for her uncle's inspection.
"I have no doubt it will be most becoming," said Mr. Carleton, smiling, "but have you done it all yourself?"
"Of course I have. I've trimmed all my hats since I was twelve. I make my shirt-waists, too, all but the cutting out; Mother does that. Doesn't Elsie make her own things?"
"No, I'm afraid she doesn't; sewing isn't exactly in Elsie's line."
"Perhaps she likes other kinds of work better," said Marjorie, cheerfully. "I suppose Aunt Julia is disappointed, though. Mother says she would be very sorry if I didn't like to sew; she thinks every girl should learn to make her own clothes."
"I'm afraid your aunt isn't any more fond of sewing than Elsie is," said Mr. Carleton, with a rather peculiar smile.
Marjorie secretly wondered who made Elsie's dresses, and who attended to the household mending, but fearing it might be impolite to ask, changed the subject by saying:
"Undine could scarcely sew at all when she came, but Aunt Jessie has been teaching her, and she has improved very much. Don't you think it's tremendously interesting about Undine, Uncle Henry?"
"It is certainly a most unusual case," admitted Mr. Carleton. "I was at first inclined to believe that Miss Undine was gifted with a vivid imagination, and was imposing on you all, but your father and mother believe her story."
"Oh, yes, indeed, we all believe it," cried Marjorie, eagerly. "We know it's true, becauseFather wrote to the dressmaker where Undine worked for two years, and she said everything was just as Undine had told us."
"Well, it is certainly a case for a brain specialist," said Mr. Carleton, "but unfortunately there are no specialists of any kind in this part of the world. I wish there were, for your aunt Jessie's sake."
Marjorie's bright face was suddenly clouded.
"You don't think Aunt Jessie ill, do you?" she asked, anxiously. "She seems so much better than she was two weeks ago."
"I don't know that she is worse than usual, but she is a very different creature from the strong, active girl I remember. Poor child, she has had a terrible experience; I wish some good surgeon could see her."
"You mean—oh, Uncle Henry, you mean you think a surgeon might possibly be able to help her!" Marjorie's hat had fallen into her lap, and she was regarding her uncle with eager, troubled eyes.
"I don't know whether a surgeon could help her or not, but he could at least make an examination. I don't suppose there is even an ordinary physician in this neighborhood."
"There is one at Lorton, but that's twentymiles away, and I've heard people say he wasn't very good. Father sent for a surgeon from Albuquerque when Aunt Jessie was hurt, and he said it was her spine that had been injured, and that she could never be cured. Do you think a doctor from the East might say something different?"
"My dear child, don't get so excited. I really have not the slightest idea; I was only speculating on my own account. It seems such a pity that one so young—well, well, it can't be helped, I suppose, and there is no use in talking about it."
Marjorie sighed as she took up her work again, and they were both silent for several minutes. Then Marjorie spoke again, and her voice was not quite steady.
"If I thought there was any surgeon in the world who could cure Aunt Jessie, I believe I would go and find him myself, and bring him here, if it took me years to earn the money, and I had to work day and night to do it. She's the dearest, bravest—oh, Uncle Henry, you haven't any idea what Aunt Jessie is!"
Marjorie broke off, with a half-suppressed sob, and dashed away some tears, which would come in spite of a brave effort to keep them back.Mr. Carleton's face softened as he watched her; he had grown to have a high opinion of this niece of his. He could not help wondering rather sadly whether there were any one in the world of whom his own little daughter would have spoken in such glowing terms.
"You're a loyal little soul, Marjorie," he said kindly. "I wish Elsie had you for a friend."
Marjorie smiled through her tears.
"I wish I had her for my friend," she said. "Don't you think she would like to come out here and make us a visit some time? She might find it rather hot in summer, if she wasn't accustomed to it, but the winters are beautiful."
"Elsie has her school in winter," Mr. Carleton said, "but perhaps she may come some day. Hark, who is that singing?"
"Only Jim coming with the mail. He always sings when he rides. It's generally 'Mandalay,' but it's 'Loch Lomond' to-day."
"'Oh, you'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,'"
"'Oh, you'll tak' the high road, and I'll tak' the low road,'"
sang the clear tenor voice, and Jim Hathaway, on his big brown horse, came galloping up to the door.
"There's only one letter for you to-day, UncleHenry," announced Marjorie, taking the handful of letters and papers from the boy. "It's a big fat one, though. Perhaps it's from Elsie; you haven't had one letter from Elsie since you came."
"It is from your Aunt Julia," said Mr. Carleton, and immediately proceeded to make himself acquainted with its contents, while Jim galloped away to the stables, and Marjorie went on with her hat trimming.
It was, as Marjorie had said, a "fat letter," and it took Mr. Carleton some time to read it. Indeed, he read some parts over more than once, before he finally put it in his pocket, and prepared to light a cigar. "Are Aunt Julia and Elsie well?" Marjorie inquired, politely. She could not help wondering why this aunt and cousin never sent any messages to her.
"Oh, yes, they are very well, thank you. Your aunt says it has been rather warm for the season, and there hasn't been much going on."
Mr. Carleton relapsed into silence, and Marjorie said no more. Her thoughts were filled by a new idea. What if a surgeon could really be found who would be able to cure Aunt Jessie? Such a possibility seemed almost too wonderful to be contemplated, and yet,—and yet—
The whistle of a distant train broke the stillness, and Marjorie came down from her air castle to remark—
"There goes the East Bound; two hours late to-day."
"You seem as much interested in the hours of trains as if you were in the habit of traveling on one at least once a week," said Mr. Carleton, smiling. "How would you like to take a journey—to go to New York, for instance?"
"I should love it better than anything in the world," said Marjorie frankly.
"Well, perhaps it can be managed. What would you say to going East with me next week, and spending the winter in New York?"
For the second time the hat Marjorie was trimming rolled unheeded into her lap, while she sat staring at her uncle with startled, wondering eyes. The proposal was so sudden—so undreamed of—that for the first moment she was speechless, and when words did come at last, they were only:
"You mean to spend the winter with you and Aunt Julia?"
"Yes, and to go to school with Elsie. I think your father and mother are rather anxious about your education."
"I know they are," said Marjorie, eagerly. "They wanted to send me to school at Albuquerque this autumn, but the drought spoiled the alfalfa crop, and there was disease among the cattle, so Father didn't feel he could afford it. I should love to see New York more than anything I can think of, but to go so far away from them all for a whole winter—oh, Uncle Henry, you're very kind to suggest it, but I really don't believe I could."
"Not if you knew your father and mother wished it very much, and that it would be a great relief to their minds?" Mr. Carleton spoke rather gravely, and Marjorie felt suddenly embarrassed.
"Of course I would try to do what they wanted me to," she said meekly, "but I don't believe they would be willing to have me go as far away from them. Albuquerque was different; I could have come home for the vacations from there. It's awfully good of you, Uncle Henry, and I would love to see Aunt Julia and Elsie, but New York is so far away."
"Only three days by train," said Mr. Carleton, smiling; "that ought not to seem much to you Westerners. You would find the life very different from that to which you have been accustomed,but I think you would enjoy it, and you must have an education, you know."
Marjorie blushed, and her eyes drooped.
"I want it very much," she said humbly. "If I were well educated, I might be able to teach, and to help Father and Mother in other ways. Uncle Henry, do you think it is my duty to go to New York?"
"Yes, Marjorie, I do," said her uncle, with unusual gravity. "I think it is an opportunity that you should not miss. I have written your Aunt Julia about it, and her answer has just come. She agrees with me that it will be the best thing for you. Your home will be with us, of course, and you will go to school with Elsie. It is not a large school, only a class of a dozen girls, and the teacher is a charming woman. You will soon make friends, and I think you would be happy."
"And I would be with Elsie," said Marjorie, beginning to look on the bright side, as she generally did. "It would be lovely to know my own cousin. Have you spoken to Mother about it, Uncle Henry?"
"Not yet, but I intend doing so this evening. I have been waiting for your aunt's reply to my letter. I feel quite sure your mother will consent;she is too sensible a woman to do anything else. But it will be hard for her to let you go so far away, and I want you to be a brave, sensible girl, and not make it any harder than you can help."
For a moment Marjorie was silent, and her uncle could see by her face something of the struggling that was going on within. Then she spoke, and her voice was clear and brave.
"All right, Uncle Henry, I promise. If Father and Mother want me to go I will, and I'll try not to let them see how hard it is. After all, it won't be like going to stay with strangers, for I shall be with my own relations all the time, and it will be so nice to have a cousin of my own age. Here comes the wagon, so we can't talk any more now. Oh, Uncle Henry, there's just one question I want to ask. Are there many good surgeons in New York?"
"Plenty of them," said her uncle, smiling. "Don't say anything of what we have been talking about, Marjorie, until I have a chance to explain to your mother."
"No, I won't, and, Uncle Henry, please don't think me ungrateful because I couldn't be so glad just at first. It's beautiful of you and Aunt Julia to want me, and if I go I'll try not to giveany more trouble than I can possibly help. Now I am going to my room for a few minutes. I don't want Aunt Jessie to see me till I've got my face straightened out. She knows me so well she says she can tell the moment there is anything the matter."
Itwas settled. Marjorie was to go East with her uncle, and spend the winter in New York. Mr. Carleton felt that he could not leave his business much longer, and was anxious to start as soon as Marjorie could be ready. For a week Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie had sewed as they had never sewed before, and Marjorie and even Undine had worked so hard that there had been little time to think of anything else. Now it was the last evening, and the small leather trunk containing all Marjorie's simple possessions, stood packed, and ready to be taken early next morning, to the railway station twenty miles away.
Mr. Carleton had been somewhat puzzled by all these elaborate preparations, and had ventured a gentle remonstrance to his sister.
"Why take so much trouble, Susie? Julia will get the child everything she needs, and I'll attend to the bills. You needn't worry aboutMarjorie's being well-dressed; you know Julia has excellent taste."
But Mrs. Graham was resolute. She knew well that her own ideas of dress and those of her New York sister-in-law were very different, but she was not without her share of family pride, and was not willing that Marjorie should appear before her Eastern relatives in clothes unfit for her position. But alas! It was twelve years since Mrs. Graham had left her New York home, and styles change a good deal in twelve years.
Every one had kept up bravely during that busy week, and they had all been extremely cheerful. Marjorie never knew of the bitter tears shed by mother and aunt in the solitude of their own rooms, and Mrs. Graham's heart would have ached even more than it did had she known of the hours Marjorie lay awake, her head buried deep in the pillow, so that Aunt Jessie in the next room, should not hear her crying. Every one knew it was for the best. Even Marjorie, miserable as she was sometimes at the thought of the two thousand miles which must soon lie between herself and the people she loved best, would have been keenly disappointed if Uncle Henry had suddenly changed his mind, or Aunt Julia written that it would not be convenient tohave her. All through that last day she had worked hard, trying not to think about to-morrow, but now everything was done and everybody was resting after their labors. Marjorie had sat on the porch for an hour with her mother and aunt, and they had all tried to talk cheerfully as usual, but it was of no use. There was a dreadful inclination on all their parts to drop into long silences, which nobody seemed able to break. They were alone, for Mr. Carleton and his brother-in-law had gone for a walk, and Undine was helping Juanita in the kitchen.
At last, at the end of a longer silence than usual, Marjorie, feeling sure she shouldn't be able to hold out much longer, suddenly sprang up, explaining hurriedly:
"I'll be right back; I'm just going to the stables for a moment to say good-by to Roland." And she was off across the lawn, biting her lip to keep back the sobs that must not come until she was out of sight and hearing of her dear ones.
The bidding good-by to her pony was a rather lengthy proceeding. She was alone, for the men had all gone off to their suppers, so she had her cry out on Roland's neck, and whispered her last loving instructions into his faithful ears.
"You are to be a good pony, Roland, and do just as you are told till I come home. Undine is to ride you whenever she likes, and Aunt Jessie thinks riding is so good for her that she's going to try to let her go out for an hour every day. You will miss me, I know, Roland dear, and I shall miss you terribly, but I've got to have an education, and after all one winter isn't so very long to be away."
Whether Roland understood or not I cannot pretend to say, but he rubbed his soft nose against Marjorie's cheek, and snuggled up close to her as if he loved her, and she left the stable feeling somehow cheered and comforted.
On the way back she passed the old playhouse, and could not resist the temptation of going in for one more last good-bye, although she knew it would mean another fit of crying. The sight of the old toys and picture books—relics of the childhood that would never come back—affected her even more than the parting with Roland had done, and sinking down on the bench where she had dozed on the afternoon of Undine's arrival, she gave herself up to a few minutes of quiet, undisturbed grief.
She had just dried her eyes, and was wondering if she could manage to reach her own room,and wash her face, without being seen by any of her family, when the door, which had been partly closed, was pushed gently open, and Undine came in.
At sight of her friend, Undine drew back, blushing.
"I didn't know you were here," she said, apologetically; "I'll go away if you want to be alone."
"Come in," said Marjorie, making room for her on the bench. "Were you looking for me?"
Undine's eyes drooped, and the color deepened in her cheeks.
"I came to cry," she said simply.
"To cry?" repeated Marjorie in surprise; "what did you want to cry for?"
"Because you're going away," Undine confessed, nestling closer to her friend.
Marjorie slipped an arm round her. "I didn't know you cared so much," she said. "You'll have Aunt Jessie, and you're so fond of her."
"I shall miss you dreadfully," whispered Undine tremulously. "You've been so good to me, and—and you were the first one to believe in me. All the rest thought I was telling stories, even Miss Jessie."
"I couldn't help believing you," said Marjorie, laughing. "When you looked at me with those big eyes of yours, and told me all those strange things, I felt sure they were true, though it was the queerest story I had ever heard. I think I should have to believe every word you ever told me."
Undine smiled.
"I don't think your uncle believes it all even yet," she said. "He looks at me so queerly sometimes that it makes me uncomfortable. I wish you were not going away with him."
"Oh, he is very kind," said Marjorie, loyally. "It's so good of him to be willing to take me to New York, and send me to school for the whole winter. I'm sorry you don't like him, Undine."
"Well, he may be kind, but he isn't nearly as nice as your father and mother. How do you know you are going to like New York?"
"Oh, I am sure I shall like it, as soon as I get used to things there." Marjorie spoke with forced cheerfulness and choked down a rising lump in her throat. "You see, it isn't like going to live among strangers," she went on, as much for the sake of reassuring herself as her friend. "I shall be with my ownuncle and aunt, and then there will be Elsie."
"Perhaps you won't like Elsie; you've never seen her."
"Why, of course I shall like her. She's my own cousin, and only three months older than I am. I have always thought that having a cousin was the next best thing to having a sister."
"I wonder if I ever had a sister," Undine remarked irrelevantly. "Somehow I don't believe I had, for when I say the word 'sister' it never makes my heart beat the way it does when I say 'Mother.' I know I had a mother, and I think I must have loved her very much."
"Perhaps that's because you've grown to love my mother," Marjorie suggested; "she may remind you of yours."
Undine pressed her hand to her forehead, and the old bewildered look came back into her eyes.
"I don't know," she said, with a sigh; "I don't know anything. Oh, Marjorie, do you think I shall ever remember?"
"I'm sure you will," said Marjorie confidently, "and so is Aunt Jessie. She says she's sure when you get well and strong it will make a great difference, and that's why she wants you tobe out in the air as much as possible. You are ever so much better now than when you came, and when you are better still, and have left off worrying, you'll wake up some morning remembering everything; just wait and see if you don't."
Undine smiled, but the smile was rather sad.
"I try not to worry," she said, "and I'm happier here than I ever was before, but I'm so frightened even now when I stop to think about it all." Undine's sentence ended with an involuntary shudder.
"Look here, Undine," said Marjorie, with a sudden determination, "I'm going to let you in to a great secret. You must promise not to speak to any one about it, even Mother, for if it should never come to anything it would be such a dreadful disappointment to everybody."
"I won't tell," promised Undine, beginning to look interested.
"It's about Aunt Jessie. Uncle Henry was speaking of Aunt Jessie one day, and he thinks it such a pity a good surgeon couldn't see her. He says she might be helped a great deal. There are no good surgeons here, but Uncle Henry says there are a great many in New York, and I've been thinking—oh, Undine, I'm almostafraid to say it, it seems so presumptuous—but just suppose I should meet a surgeon in New York, and be able to persuade him to come here to see Aunt Jessie, and suppose he should cure her! It's the one hope that keeps me up every time I feel like breaking down at the idea of going so far away from everybody."
"It would be perfectly beautiful," Undine agreed warmly, "but do you suppose any surgeon would be willing to come so far to see some one he didn't know?"
Marjorie's face, which had brightened for a moment, grew very serious again.
"I don't know," she said. "If he knew her I'm sure he would come—any one would—but if he had never even heard of her existence it would be different, of course. I don't know how I'm going to manage it; I only know it's the thing I want most in the whole world, and I'm going to try for it with all my might."
There was a ring in Marjorie's voice, and a light in her eyes, which impressed her friend, and with a quick, affectionate impulse, Undine caught her hand and squeezed it.
"I wish I could help," she said, "but there isn't anything I can do except pray about it. I will pray every night, just as hard as I do to remember,and if it really should happen I think I should be almost as happy as you."
Just then the conversation was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps and voices, and with a whispered caution to Undine not to breathe a word to any one, Marjorie hurried away to join her father and uncle, who were returning from their walk.
Everybody made a great effort to be cheerful at supper that evening. Even Mr. Carleton, who was usually rather quiet, threw himself manfully into the breach, and told funny stories that made them all laugh. After all, the evening wasn't as dreadful as Marjorie had feared it was going to be, but when bedtime came, and she had to say good-night to her family for the last time for eight whole months, she felt herself in immediate danger of breaking down.
Mrs. Graham sat for a long time by her daughter's bedside that night, and they had what Marjorie called "a perfectly Heavenly talk." It was a serious talk, but not a sad one, and when it was over, and Marjorie flung her arms round her mother's neck, and did break down just a little, things did not seem nearly as hopeless as she had expected.
"I don't believe any other girl in the worldhas such a perfect mother as I have," was Marjorie's last waking thought. "I don't deserve her, and never can, but I'm going to try not to disappoint her any more than I can possibly help. One winter can't last for ever, and when June comes, and I am at home again, how gloriously happy we shall all be!"