"Of all 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 Undine would 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 Miss Graham, 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 San Francisco." 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. The quick 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 another living 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 have Father 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."