But Undine did not forget again, although it was some time before she was able to give any coherent account of what she could remember. Indeed, she was in such a feverish, hysterical condition, that Dr. Randolph would not allow any attempt at questioning her that night.

"She has had a terrible shock, poor child," he said to Mrs. Graham. "The reading of that letter must have brought everything back with a rush and the knowledge that she had been mourned as dead for nearly three years was almost more than she could bear. But she is young and strong, and a good night's sleep will do wonders for her. When I think of what we owe to you and your—" The doctor's voice broke suddenly, and he impulsively held out his hand.

"I think our obligations are mutual," said Mrs. Graham, smiling, though there were tears in her eyes. "According to Marjorie's last letter, you and Mrs. Randolph have been making our little girl very happy, while your niece has been a great comfort to us. It is all so strange and wonderful that I can scarcely realize yet that it isn't a dream."

It was pitiful to see Undine cling to her brother; she could not bear to have him out of her sight for a moment, and Beverly himself, almost stunned by the great shock of the discovery that Undine and Barbara were really one and the same, coming at the end of four days of almost unendurable suspense, could do little beyond hovering over his sister, in joy and thankfulness too deep for words.

"Does Mother know, Beverly?" Undine whispered, late that evening, when the two were alone together.

"No, Babs, she doesn't know yet, but we are going to take you home just as soon as we can. We couldn't let Mother even suspect until we were sure ourselves. Marjorie was certain she recognized your photograph, but Uncle George and I couldn't believe it was true; it seemed so impossible."

"Poor, poor Mother," sighed Undine; "oh, Beverly, how unhappy she must have been!"

"Don't talk about it, Babs; you know Uncle George doesn't want you to talk. You must try to go to sleep, so as to be able to start for home as soon as possible."

"I'm afraid to go to sleep," protested Undine, feverishly. "Perhaps when I wake I shall have forgotten everything again. Oh, Beverly, don't let me forget again."

"Of course we won't let you," said Beverly, putting a strong arm around her, protectingly. "You are quite safe now, you know, Babs darling, Uncle George and I are here, and we're going to take you home to Mother."

Undine breathed a deep sigh of relief, as she nestled in her brother's arms, and when she fell asleep at last it was with Beverly's hand clasped fast in hers.

But after a long night's sleep, and a joyful waking, to find that she had not forgotten again, Undine was quite a different creature, and during the morning that followed she was able to give her uncle and brother a fairly clear account of her adventures.

"I remember it all quite well now," she said. "Aunt Helen was ill that night, and she said she would have the maid sleep in her room, in case she might need something. I slept in the maid's room, which was just across the hall. I was very tired, and I think I must have gone to sleep as soon as I was in bed, for I don't remember anything until I woke hearing a terrible noise. The whole hotel seemed to be rocking, and I saw some of the things on the bureau fall over, and a picture came down off the wall. I think I was too frightened to move, for I lay quite still, thinking every minute that Aunt Helen would come and tell me what had happened. In a few moments the shaking stopped and then I heard people screaming and running about in the halls.

"Aunt Helen didn't come, or the maid either, and at last I got up, and went to look for them. I was in my nightgown and bare feet, but I was too frightened to stop to put any clothes on. I ran out into the hall, intending to go to Aunt Helen's room, but something frightful had happened; there wasn't any room, only a great pile of bricks and mortar, and I heard people say one of the chimneys had fallen in. Oh, it was terrible—I can't talk about it!" And the poor child began to shiver convulsively.

"Never mind about that part of the story, dear," Dr. Randolph said, soothingly, while Beverly put his arm round her.

"I called and called to Aunt Helen," Undine went on in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "but nobody answered, and then the house began to shake again and people screamed that the walls were falling.

"The next thing I remember is being out in the street. I don't know how I got there, but I was running along in my bare feet, in the midst of a great crowd. I don't know how far I ran or where I went. I think I must have been crazed with fright. I tried to speak to people, but nobody took any notice of me. I heard them saying there had been a terrible earthquake, and that the whole city had been destroyed. At last I got very tired, and I think I must have been faint too, for everything grew black, and I was so cold. I remember going inside a doorway, and thinking I would rest there for a few minutes, and then the stone must have fallen on my head, for I don't remember anything more till I woke up in the hospital, and didn't even know my name."

"Of course it must have been the poor maid who was killed," said Beverly. "We never dreamed of that, because we felt so sure you and Aunt Helen had roomed together. But Babs dear, did you never remember anything at all—not even the least little thing?"

Undine shook her head.

"I used to have little gleams of memory sometimes," she said, "but they were gone again in a minute. I had one the first time I heard Jim sing 'Mandalay,' and for one second I think I almost remembered you, Beverly. Another time I almost remembered was when Mrs. Graham was reading a letter from Marjorie, in which she mentioned your name for the first time. I kept saying 'Randolph, Randolph' over and over to myself for a long time, but after the first minute the words didn't seem to mean anything to me. It wasn't till yesterday when I read that letter, and saw all your names together—Mother's and yours, and Uncle George's and then that part about going to Barbara's grave—that it all came back with a rush, and I was so frightened that I fainted."

Later in the day Undine—or Barbara, as I suppose we must call her now—had a long talk with her uncle. Dr. Randolph had insisted on Beverly's going out for a walk. The boy was utterly worn out from excitement and suspense, and his uncle feared he would be really ill if precautions were not taken. So he was sent off for a long tramp over the ranch with Mr. Graham, and the doctor sat down by his little niece's bedside, and tried to draw her thoughts away from painful memories, by talking of Marjorie, and of her own life on the ranch.

"They have all been so good to me here, Uncle George," Barbara said, the grateful tears starting to her eyes. "If you could have seen me when I first came! I am sure I looked like a tramp, and I was so miserable I didn't care much what became of me. I don't think many people would have believed my crazy story, but they took me right in without a word, and have treated me just as if I belonged to them ever since. Aren't Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie lovely?"

"They are indeed," said the doctor, heartily. "We owe them a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid. Miss Graham has one of the sweetest faces I have ever seen. Has she been a cripple all her life?"

Barbara caught her breath as a sudden recollection flashed into her mind.

"Uncle George," she cried excitedly, "aren't you a great surgeon?"

"I am a surgeon certainly," said her uncle, smiling, "but I don't know just what you would call a great one; why do you want to know?"

"Because," said Barbara, clasping her hands, and regarding the doctor with shining eyes, "now Marjorie can have her wish—the thing she wants more than anything else in the world, and that she and I have been praying for all winter."

And in a few rapid words she told the story of Miss Graham's accident, and of Marjorie's hopes.

Dr. Randolph said nothing, but he looked much interested, and when Beverly returned from his walk, he left the brother and sister together, and went in quest of Mrs. Graham, with whom he had a long talk. Then Miss Jessie was taken into their confidence, and all through the long afternoon Barbara and Beverly waited in eager anxiety for their uncle's return.

Mr. Graham was obliged to ride some distance to another ranch that afternoon, in order to see a man on business, and it was late in the evening when he returned, and found his old classmate waiting for him on the porch.

"Well, and how are things going?" he inquired cheerfully, when Jim had taken away his horse. "I trust our little friend is better."

"She is much better, thank you," Dr. Randolph answered. "She is fast recovering from the shock, and I hope we may be able to start for home by the day after to-morrow. Her mother must be told as soon as possible, and Barbara herself can scarcely wait to get home. I am going to make arrangements to leave on the first available train for the East and—Graham, I want to ask you a favor."

"I am sure I shall be glad to do anything in my power," Mr. Graham said, smiling; "what is it?"

"I want you to let me take your wife and sister back to New York with us."

"My wife and sister!" repeated Mr. Graham in amazement. "Why, my dear boy, my poor sister hasn't left her wheeled-chair for eight years. I am sure that she could not stand such a journey."

"I think she could," said the doctor, quietly. "I should take a compartment for her, of course, and she could lie down during the whole trip. As for the drive to the station, I think that could also be managed without much discomfort. She tells me she often takes fairly long drives with you and your wife. Barbara is still very much shaken, and will need a woman's care on the journey. Your wife can be of great assistance to us, and as to your sister—well, the fact is, Graham, I made an examination this afternoon, with her and Mrs. Graham's consent, and I see no reason why an operation cannot be performed. I can't promise an absolute cure, but I have strong hopes."

Mr. Graham did not speak, but he grasped his old friend's hand in gratitude too deep for words, and the doctor went away well satisfied, to carry the good news to his niece and nephew.

"Oh, how happy Marjorie will be!" cried Barbara, with sparkling eyes. "When she wrote me that she had met a great surgeon, but would never have the courage to speak to him about her aunt, how little either of us dreamed—oh, what a wonderful, beautiful thing it all is! To think that in five days I shall be with Mother. You don't think the shock will make her ill, do you, Uncle George?"

"I hope not, dear, but we must be very careful how the news is broken to her. Now I want Beverly to go to bed, and you must try to sleep, too, Barbara, for you will need all your strength for the journey, and the meeting with your mother."

But it was a long time before Barbara fell asleep that night. Old memories were trooping back thick and fast, and there was so much that was happy as well as sad to remember. She breathed more than one little prayer of thankfulness to the dear Heavenly Father, who had watched over her through all her trials and dangers, and brought her back at last to home and friends. And when sleep came at last, it was a peaceful, refreshing sleep, untroubled by feverish dreams.