"And so Undine went back into the fountain, carrying the knight, Hildebrand, with her, and nobody ever saw either of them again. I always wished it hadn't ended there, but had gone on to tell what became of the fisherman and his wife, and all the other people. That's the great trouble with stories; they are so apt to end just where you want to hear more. If I ever wrote a book I should put a chapter at the end, telling what became of all the characters afterward."

The two girls were sitting together on the porch; Marjorie busily engaged in darning stockings; the new Undine patiently hemming a towel. It was a week since the arrival of "the mysterious stranger," as Marjorie called her, and she had already become an established member of the household. Marjorie accepted the mystery of a girl who didn't know her own name, and who apparently belonged to nobody, just as she would have accepted any other girl friend who might have come into her rather uneventful life. It had never even occurred to her to doubt the truth of Undine's strange story. The rest of the family had not been quite so easily satisfied, and for several days Mr. and Mrs. Graham had been inclined to regard the stranger with some doubt, even suspicion; but there was something very winning about this new Undine—she seemed such a simple, innocent child—so grateful for every kindness, and so eager to be of use in the household—that they gradually found themselves coming to believe in her, in spite of appearances.

"I am sure the child is telling the truth as far as she knows it," Aunt Jessie had said to her sister-in-law that morning. "It all sounds very strange and incredible, I know, but I can't doubt the truth in those honest eyes of hers. I am really growing quite fond of her already." To which Mrs. Graham had replied, with a smile:

"We shall know when Donald receives the answers to the letters he sent to the Home in Oakland and to the dressmaker."

As Marjorie concluded her remarks on the story of Undine, she glanced critically at her friend's work.

"You are hemming much better to-day," she said in a tone of satisfaction; "I am sure Mother will say you have improved."

Undine's face brightened.

"I hope she will—oh, I do hope so!" she said eagerly. "She is so dear, and I want to please her so much, but I'm afraid I'm very stupid."

"You are not stupid at all," declared Marjorie loyally. "You are much cleverer than I am about lots of things. It isn't your fault if you've never been taught to sew."

"There wasn't any time to learn at Miss Brent's," said Undine; "there were always such a lot of errands, and so many parcels to be carried home. I suppose if I had learned before the earthquake I shouldn't remember now."

"I don't know," said Marjorie thoughtfully; "you must have learned to read, and you haven't forgotten that."

"No, nor to write either. It's very queer about the things I remember and those I don't. Mr. Jackson used to asked me a great many questions, and he wrote down some of the things I told him, to show to a society he belonged to. Once a very funny thing happened. I had taken a dress home to a lady, and was waiting in the hall while she tried it on, to see if it had to go back for any alterations. There were some people in the parlor talking French. I don't know how I knew it was French, but I did, and I understood almost everything they said. I told Mr. Jackson, and he was so interested. He made me tell Miss Brent, too, and he wanted her to put another advertisement in the newspapers, but she said she hadn't any money to waste in advertising, and that if I had any relatives they would have come for me long ago."

"It's the most interesting thing I ever heard of in my life," declared Marjorie. "Aunt Jessie says she is sure your friends must have been educated people, because you never make mistakes in grammar."

Undine looked pleased.

"I'm glad your aunt thinks that," she said. "I should hate to talk in the way some of the girls at Miss Brent's did. They used to laugh at me and call me stuck up, but I didn't want to be like them. I hate rough girls. I dream about my mother sometimes, and I know she would be sorry to have me grow up rough and coarse."

"It seems so strange that you can't even remember your mother," said Marjorie, reflectively. "I can't imagine that anything could possibly happen to me that would make me forget Mother."

A shadow crept into Undine's face, and the troubled, frightened look came back into her eyes.

"I don't know," she said, wearily; "I don't know anything. Oh, Marjorie, it frightens me so sometimes."

There was a quiver in the girl's voice, and kind-hearted Marjorie laid a protecting hand on hers.

"Never mind," she said, soothingly; "don't think any more about it than you can help. Perhaps it will all come back some time; Father thinks it will. He thinks the stone, or whatever it was, that fell on you, must have given your brain a terrible shock. He says he heard of a man once who was very badly hurt in a railroad accident, and couldn't remember anything for a long time. His family thought he must be dead, but suddenly his memory all came back to him, and he went home, and gave them a great surprise. Perhaps it will be like that with you some day."

"Miss Brent thinks all my people must have been killed in the earthquake," said Undine, with a sigh. "That might be the reason why nobody ever came to look for me. They say more people were killed than any one knew about. If I could only remember the very least thing that happened before, but I can't; it's just as if I came alive for the first time that day in the hospital. Oh, here comes your aunt; I'll go and help her with her chair." And dropping her towel on the floor of the porch, Undine darted into the house, whence she returned in a moment, carefully guiding Miss Graham's wheeled chair over the door-sill.

"Thank you, dear," Miss Graham said, kindly. "You are a very helpful little girl, but when you are as accustomed to me and my chair as Marjorie is, you will realize that I can manage very well. I heard your voices, and thought I would come out here for a little while; it's so much cooler than in the house."

"Won't you let me get your sewing, or your book, or something?" inquired Undine, hovering solicitously over the invalid.

"No, thank you. I have been sewing all the afternoon; helping Mrs. Graham with the new parlor curtains, and I'm going to be lazy for a little while. I am afraid you dropped your own sewing, in your anxiety to help me."

Undine blushed as she stooped to pick up the discarded towel.

"I'm afraid I'm very careless," she said apologetically; "Miss Brent said I was, but I love to wait on people."

Miss Graham laughed, and she had such a merry, contagious laugh that she was speedily joined by Marjorie, and even Undine herself.

"It is very pleasant to be waited on," she said, "and I am sure you would make a capital nurse, Undine."

Undine looked pleased.

"I should like to be a nurse," she said. "I used to do lots of things for Mr. Jackson, and he liked to have me. I wish I could wait on you, because then I should feel that I was of some use, and that you weren't just keeping me because you were sorry for me."

There was an unmistakable wistfulness in Undine's tone, and Miss Graham was touched.

"My dear little girl," she said, "I am sure there are many ways in which you can make yourself useful if you stay with us. You will soon learn to be a great help to Mrs. Graham, and there will be many little things you can do for me as well."

Marjorie gave her aunt a grateful glance, and Undine looked relieved. At that moment the afternoon stillness was broken by a sound of distant hoof-beats, and a clear tenor voice singing:

"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.

"I know that song," cried Undine excitedly, clasping and unclasping her hands, and she began reciting in a dreamy, far-away voice:

"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 forever singing 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 remember something, 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 had telegraphed 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 people I 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.