Mr. Carleton received 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, because Father 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 twenty miles 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."

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, Uncle Henry," 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 give any 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."