It was 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 about Marjorie'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 to have 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 own uncle 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 to be 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 almost afraid 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 world has 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!"