In the meantime, Marjorie, quite unconscious of the anxieties of her family regarding her future, was cantering away over the prairie on her bay pony. Having passed the last buildings of the ranch, and trotted through the Indian village, where more than one woman, and numerous copper-colored children smiled a friendly greeting, she turned her pony's head in the direction of the railroad. The nearest town was more than twenty miles away, but the line of the Santa FÉ Railroad ran within a comparatively short distance from the ranch, and twice every day the stillness was broken by the whistles of the east and west bound trains, as they rushed by on their way across the continent, from Los Angeles to Chicago. To watch the trains go by had been one of the amusements of Marjorie's life, ever since she could remember. When she was a little girl, it had been a great treat to be taken by her father, on his big chestnut horse, and to have him draw rein in full view of the tracks, and wait to see the great iron horse come rushing by. As soon as she was old enough to ride out by herself, this spot had become one of her favorite afternoon excursions. There was a wonderful fascination in watching the long line of sleepers and day coaches, filled with people, and to wonder where they could all be going, and speculate as to what might be happening on the other side of those moving windows. Sometimes of late the longing to know more of the outside world, and to follow those ever moving cars, had become almost irresistible.

"If I could only take one real journey I believe I should be happy forever," she would say to herself, and the hope of going to school at Albuquerque, two hundred miles away, had filled her with a wild kind of joy that was not unmixed with fear. But now that hope had been crushed, for the present at least, and Marjorie, who was a sensible little soul, had decided that it might be wiser to avoid watching the trains go by just now. For a week she had kept away from the line, at the hours when trains were likely to pass, but this afternoon she felt more cheerful. The little talk with her aunt had done her good, and she resolved to take Aunt Jessie's advice, and try to make the best of things. So when the pony manifested a desire to take the familiar turning, she let him have his way, and trotted on quite cheerfully toward the railroad.

"I'm afraid we're too late to-day, Roland," she remarked aloud, as the pony plodded on bravely through the dust and heat. "I didn't hear the whistle, but I'm sure the East Bound must have passed, and the West Bound went through at two o'clock."

Having very few people to talk to, Marjorie had formed the habit of talking to her live pets, of which Roland was her favorite. Her father had given him to her when he was only a month old, and she had trained him herself, as soon as he was old enough to bear the saddle, to say nothing of the many romps the two had enjoyed together in the days of his colthood. It seemed to her sometimes as if Roland must really understand some of the things she told him, and now, at her remark about the train, he slackened his pace to a leisurely trot, as if under the impression that there was no use in hurrying.

"It is hot, isn't it, Roland?" said Marjorie, sympathetically. "You and I will be glad when winter comes, and we can have some fine gallops. I thought I might be going away to leave you this winter, but I'm not."

Roland pricked up his ears, and quickened his pace.

"What is it, Roland?" Marjorie inquired in surprise. "Oh, I see, it's JosÉ on his black bronco."

Her face brightened, and she waved her hand in friendly welcome to the approaching figure of a small Mexican boy, mounted on an equally small pony.

"Hello, JosÉ!" she called, as the two came within speaking distance of each other; "Do you know whether the East Bound has passed yet or not?"

"See there," said the boy, pointing in the direction from which he had come. "Something wrong with engine. She been there three hours. My father tell me, and I go see."

"How exciting!" cried Marjorie, everything else forgotten for the moment in the interest of this news. "Do you think she'll stay much longer?"

JosÉ shook his head; he could not say. He was a rather dull boy, but Marjorie had known him all her life, as she had known every inhabitant, Mexican or Indian, who had made a home in that desolate region. She could speak Spanish almost as well as English, and could carry on a conversation in two Indian dialects. She did not wait for any more conversation with JosÉ on this occasion, however, but with a chirp to Roland to indicate that she wished to go faster, hurried the pony along at such a pace that in less than five minutes they came in sight of the waiting train.

No, she was not too late. The long transcontinental express was standing still, and a number of the passengers had left the cars and were sauntering leisurely about. Marjorie's heart beat fast with excitement, and she drew the pony in sharply.

"We mustn't go too near, Roland," she whispered. "Oh, look, isn't it interesting? See those girls in shirt-waists and straw hats. They look just about my age. How I should like to speak to them, but I suppose they would think it queer."

The sight of a girl in a striped khaki skirt, with a sombrero on her head, sitting astride a bay pony, had quickly attracted the attention of some of the passengers, and Marjorie soon realized that she was being stared at in a manner that was slightly disconcerting. Not that she was in the least shy, but these strangers had a way of looking at her, as if they found something amusing in her appearance, and Marjorie did not like being stared at any more than any other girl.

"I don't think we'll stay any longer, Roland," she said, conscious of the fact that her cheeks were burning uncomfortably. And turning the pony's head abruptly, she galloped away in the direction of home.

But it was some minutes before her cheeks had regained their natural color.

"I wonder why they stared so," she kept repeating to herself. "Was it the sombrero—I don't suppose girls wear sombreros in the East—or was it something else? Oh, there's the whistle; thank goodness they're off!" And Marjorie gave a sigh of relief, and let Roland drop into a trot.

It was still early when she reached home, and having delivered Roland to the Indian boy, whose duty it was to look after him, and finding that her mother and aunt were both busy, she betook herself once more to the playhouse, intending to spend the hour before supper in learning more of the fortunes of Anne and her friends. But her ride in the heat had made her sleepy, and after turning a few pages rather listlessly, her eyes drooped, and letting the book slip into her lap, she rested her head against the wall of the cabin, and dropped off into an afternoon nap.

How long she had been asleep she did not know, but she started up, wide awake, aroused by a sound close beside her. Then for a moment she sat staring stupidly at the apparition before her; for there, standing in the doorway, regarding her with big, hungry, brown eyes, was a girl—not a Mexican or an Indian, but a pale-faced, dark-haired girl of about her own age, in a faded linen dress, much too short in the skirt, and a battered straw hat, decidedly the worse for wear.

"Goodness gracious me!" gasped Marjorie in amazement; "where in the world did you come from?"

"I'm hungry," said the stranger, in a remarkably sweet voice; "Won't you please give me something to eat?"

"Who are you?" demanded Marjorie, fully convinced that this was a dream.

A frightened expression came into the big brown eyes, and the girl's lip began to tremble.

"I don't know," she said; "I can't remember. Won't you please give me something to eat?"

"I know I'm dreaming," said Marjorie, and she pinched her arm, but though the pinch hurt considerably, she did not wake up. The strange girl continued to stand in the doorway.

"How—how did you get here?" she repeated; "where did you come from?"

"I got off the train. I've walked ever so far, and it was so hot. I thought there would be houses, but there weren't any. You won't be cross with me, will you? I'm afraid of cross people."

"Why did you get off the train?" inquired Marjorie. If this were not a dream, then it was certainly the most extraordinary adventure she had ever had.

The brown eyes filled with tears, and the stranger clasped her hands nervously.

"Don't scold, ah, please don't," she pleaded; "I'm so tired of being scolded. I got off the train because Mrs. Hicks was so cross I couldn't stand it any longer. She said I was a lazy, good-for-nothing girl, and she wished she had never promised to take me to Kansas. I said I wished she hadn't either, and that I didn't want to go to Kansas or anywhere else with her, and then she said I was an impudent little wretch, and she wished she could get rid of me. She slapped me, too, and that made me furious, so when she sent me to the dining-car to get some milk for the baby, and the train was standing still, I just got off. I don't want to stay with people who don't like me, and I can't stand being slapped."

"But think how frightened your friend must have been when the train started and you didn't come back," said Marjorie, reproachfully. She did not know quite what to make of this singular young person, who appeared to think nothing of deserting her friends, and wandering off by herself on the prairie.

"Mrs. Hicks isn't my friend, and she won't care, anyway; she'll be glad to get rid of me. I heard her telling a woman on the train that I was an awful nuisance, and she couldn't think why she had ever promised her sister to take me to Kansas with her. She doesn't want me—nobody wants me, nobody in the whole world!" And suddenly this extraordinary visitor put both hands before her face, and burst into tears.

Marjorie sprang to her feet, wide awake at last. She had not seen many people cry, and the sight always affected her deeply.

"Oh, don't, please don't!" she cried, and almost without realizing what she was doing she had slipped an arm about the shaking shoulders. "We'll take care of you, of course we will, and you can tell us about everything. Oh, please do stop crying; you make me so very uncomfortable."

But the brown-eyed girl did not stop crying. On the contrary, she cried all the harder, and buried her face on Marjorie's shoulder.

"You're kind, oh, you're kind!" sobbed the poor child, clinging convulsively to her new friend. "Nobody was ever kind to me before except old Mr. Jackson, and now he's dead. I've been so miserable, and it's so dreadful not to remember anything, not even my name."

"Your name?" repeated Marjorie stupidly; "do you mean you don't even know your own name?"

The stranger shook her head mournfully as she searched for a missing pocket-handkerchief. Marjorie supplied the handkerchief from her own pocket, and sympathetically wiped her visitor's eyes.

"But I don't understand," she said doubtfully; "I never heard of a person's not knowing her own name. Haven't you any relatives?"

"I suppose I had once, but I can't remember them. The first thing I remember is waking up in a hospital. It was just after the earthquake in San Francisco, and they told me I was found in the street under some ruins. They thought a stone or something must have fallen on my head, and that was what made me forget everything. Nobody knew whom I belonged to, and I had only a nightgown on when I was found, so they couldn't trace me by my clothes. At first the doctors thought I would remember soon, and they used to ask me questions, but I never could answer any of them. They kept me at the hospital a long time, but I was always frightened because I couldn't remember anything. At last when I was strong again, and nobody came to look for me, they said they couldn't keep me there any longer. They sent me to the 'Home For The Friendless in Oakland,' but I had only been there a week when Miss Brent came to look for a girl to run errands, and carry home parcels. They told her about me, and she said she would take me, because I might have rich friends, who would come for me, and pay her well for taking care of me. So I went to live with her, and she put an advertisement about me in the newspapers. For a long time I kept hoping some one would come for me, but nobody ever did. Miss Brent was a dressmaker, and she had a lot of girls working for her, but I didn't like any of them, they were so rough, and they used to laugh at me, and call me 'loony.' Miss Brent called me Sally, but I know that isn't my real name. I got so tired running errands, and carrying the heavy boxes home made my back ache. I don't think I could have stood it if it hadn't been for Mr. Jackson. He boarded with Miss Brent, and lived in a little room on the top floor. He was very old, and nobody paid much attention to him, but I was sorry for him, and I used to carry up his meals, and he talked to me so kindly. He never made fun of me, because I couldn't remember, but he lent me books to read, and asked me questions like the doctors at the hospital. It's very queer, but I could always remember how to read. I can write, too, and I can even remember things in history, but I can't remember a single thing about myself. Mr. Jackson said he was sure my memory would come back some day, and then I would be able to find my friends. He died last winter, and after that it was dreadful. Miss Brent was always busy and cross, and the girls were worse than ever. A month ago Miss Brent told us she was going to be married, and give up the business, and that all the girls would have to leave. Most of them didn't mind, because they had homes, but Miss Brent said she didn't know what in the world to do with me. She didn't think any one would take me, because I wasn't strong enough to do hard work, and she was afraid I was too old to go back to the 'Home For The Friendless.'

"The wedding was last week, and Mrs. Hicks came on from Kansas. She is Miss Brent's sister, and her husband has a big cattle farm. Mrs. Hicks brought her baby with her, and they got me to help take care of it, and then Miss Brent persuaded her sister to take me home with her. I didn't want to go, for I knew I shouldn't like Mrs. Hicks, but Miss Brent said I must. We started yesterday, and it was awful. Mrs. Hicks kept saying she knew I would never be any use to her, and the baby was so heavy, and cried all the time. I had just about made up my mind to run away when Mrs. Hicks slapped me, and that settled it. I never was slapped before, and I couldn't stand it."

The brown eyes flashed indignantly, and there was a crimson spot in both the girl's cheeks. Marjorie had been listening to this strange story in breathless astonishment. It did not occur to her for a moment to doubt its truth. Before she could ask any more questions, however, she was brought back to a recollection of every-day life once more by the sound of her father's voice calling from the porch:

"Supper's ready, Marjorie."

Marjorie came down to earth with a rush, and hastily explaining to her new friend that she would be back in a minute, dashed away to the house, there to electrify her family with the astounding news that there was a strange girl in the playhouse, who had walked all the way from the railroad, and didn't know her own name.

When Marjorie returned five minutes later, she was accompanied by an excited group, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Miss Jessie, and the Mexican servant, Juanita. At sight of so many strangers the visitor shrank into a corner, and her eyes seemed to grow bigger and more frightened than ever, but when Mrs. Graham spoke to her in her kind, motherly voice, the pale face lighted up, and holding out both hands to Marjorie's mother, she exclaimed joyfully:

"You're kind, too; I can see it in your face. Oh, please don't send me away; I'm so tired and hungry, and I don't know where else I can possibly go."

"And what are we to call you, my dear?" Mrs. Graham inquired, late that evening, when the uninvited guest had been refreshed by a bath and a hearty supper, and was lying back comfortably in the big rocker in the living-room. "Did I understand Marjorie to say that you had been called Sally?"

The stranger pouted. Now that her face was washed she was really very pretty.

"I hate 'Sally,'" she said, impatiently; "it's not my name, and I don't see why I need be called by it. I wish you'd call me something pretty."

Mrs. Graham looked a little doubtful, but Marjorie, who was regarding this singular young person in a kind of fascinated awe—half expecting to see her vanish at any moment as mysteriously as she had come—hastened to the rescue.

"I've thought of a beautiful name for her, Mother," she said, eagerly. "Why can't we call her Undine—at least till she remembers what her name really is? She didn't come out of a fountain, but she really did come almost as mysteriously as Undine came to the fisherman's hut, in the story. Would you like to be called Undine, Sally?"

"I should love it," declared the visitor in a tone of satisfaction and as Marjorie generally had her way, and Undine really seemed as good a name as any other, the matter was settled, and the new Undine fell asleep that night, happier than she had ever been since that strange waking in the California hospital, more than two years before.