"Do sit down, Marjorie; you haven't been still for five minutes since luncheon." Elsie spoke in a tone of weary exasperation, as she laid down the book she had been trying to read, and regarded her cousin's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, with a half amused, half annoyed expression.

Marjorie laughed nervously.

"I'm sorry I've been so restless," she said, "but how can I help it. Just think, they'll be here this very day, and Mrs. Randolph doesn't know a single thing yet."

"Of course I know it's the most exciting thing that ever happened," Elsie admitted, with resignation, "but one can't help getting tired even of exciting things when one has heard of nothing else for a whole week. It will be a week to-morrow since you got that telegram, and I don't believe you've thought of another thing since."

"I don't believe I have," agreed Marjorie, "but then how could I? Oh, Elsie, I'm so happy when I think it has all come about through my recognizing that photograph! Just suppose Beverly and I hadn't gone to Mammy's cabin that afternoon. I might never have seen a picture of Barbara, and the Randolphs might never have known."

"I wonder how they are going to break the news to Mrs. Randolph," remarked Elsie, without heeding her cousin's last observation. "I should think it would be dreadfully dangerous; the shock might kill her."

Marjorie's bright face clouded.

"I can't help worrying about it," she said, "but I am sure Dr. Randolph will find a way of doing it. It's wonderful to see her so calm, just doing every-day things, and talking as if nothing unusual were happening, when we are all so excited and nervous."

"I really don't see how you managed to keep her from suspecting when you were on the way home," said Elsie; "I'm afraid I should have let out something without intending to."

"I couldn't do that," said Marjorie, gravely. "Think how terrible it would have been if Mrs. Randolph had hoped and then been disappointed. I was sure myself, but neither Dr. Randolph nor Beverly believed it could be true. I shall never forget that last evening in Virginia. Beverly and I were both almost ill from excitement, and yet we had to act just as if nothing unusual had happened. Fortunately the doctor and Beverly were to start the first thing in the morning, so we all went to bed early. I don't believe any of us slept a wink; I know I didn't. The day on the train wasn't quite so bad, because Mrs. Patterson was with us, and she hadn't been told anything, and could be natural without trying. I pretended to be very much interested in a book, so as not to have to talk much, but I couldn't tell you what it was about. And all the time Mrs. Randolph was just as sweet and calm as possible, and worried about me because my hands were cold, and I couldn't eat."

"I think you were very plucky," said Elsie.

The bright color rushed into Marjorie's cheeks; this was the first compliment Elsie had ever paid her.

"I wasn't at all plucky," she said, modestly; "any one else would have done the same thing. I'm glad you think I was, though, for I do want you to like me."

"Of course I like you," said Elsie, reddening in her turn. "There's the door-bell; I wonder if it's Mamma."

"Perhaps it's a letter," cried Marjorie, springing to her feet; "I ought to have a letter from home to-day. I haven't heard a word since that little note from Aunt Jessie the morning after Barbara was found."

But it was not a letter. Neither was it Mrs. Carleton, who had gone driving with a friend. In a moment the faithful Hortense appeared with a message.

"Madame Randolph has sent to inquire if Mademoiselle Marjorie will come to her apartment for a short time. Her friend has been obliged to go out, and she is alone."

Marjorie clasped her hands in dismay, and turned a little pale.

"Send word you're very busy, and can't possibly come," suggested Elsie. But Marjorie shook her head.

"I shall have to go," she said, with a little gasp. "Mrs. Randolph has been so good to me; she would think it so strange if I didn't come when she sent for me. Say I will be there in a few minutes, Hortense."

"You really are a wonder, Marjorie," remarked Elsie, with involuntary admiration, as Hortense left the room with the message. "I'm sure I should never be able to do it."

"Yes, you would," said Marjorie, smiling and without another word she followed Hortense out of the room.

Marjorie's heart was beating very fast when she rang Mrs. Randolph's bell five minutes later, but when that lady herself opened the door, and greeted her guest with her usual serene cheerfulness, the girl pulled herself together with a mighty effort, and her friend noticed nothing unusual in her manner, except that her cheeks were flushed and her eyes shining.

"I am so glad you could come this afternoon," Mrs. Randolph said, leading the way to the sitting-room. "I haven't seen you for days, and was beginning to feel quite neglected." She spoke playfully, but Marjorie felt the gentle reproach in her tone, and her heart beat faster than ever.

"Indeed I didn't mean to neglect you," she said, eagerly, "but—but you see I have had a good deal to do since I came home; school began on Monday."

"I understand, dear," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling, "and I am not blaming you in the least, but I have missed you very much."

"You have had Mrs. Patterson," said Marjorie, as she took the seat her friend indicated beside her on the sofa.

"Oh, yes, and she has been a great comfort, for I have missed Beverly terribly. He and the doctor will be at home this afternoon, you know."

"Yes," said Marjorie; "Mrs. Patterson told us at luncheon. She said you had a headache; I hope it's better."

"Much better, thank you, dear. I didn't come down to luncheon because I wanted to be quite bright and well this evening when Beverly is here. This is always a rather sad day for me; it is my little Barbara's birthday."

Marjorie's heart gave one big jump, and began throbbing so fast she could scarcely breathe. She could not have spoken had her life depended on it, but fortunately Mrs. Randolph did not appear to expect an answer.

"My little girl would have been fifteen to-day," she said, sadly. "It seems hard to realize; she was such a child when she went away. I have missed Beverly so much to-day; he and I always talk of Barbara on her birthday."

"Would you like to talk to me about her, Mrs. Randolph?" said Marjorie, in a voice that was scarcely above a whisper.

"I should like it very much. Indeed, that is why I sent for you. Mrs. Patterson has gone out. I offered to go with her, but she said she had some important business to attend to, and would rather go alone. I am afraid something is troubling her, and she doesn't want to worry me about it."

Marjorie, who knew that Mrs. Patterson had gone to the station to meet the travelers, in answer to an urgent telegram from Dr. Randolph, said nothing. Mrs. Patterson, being a nervous, excitable little woman, had been purposely kept in ignorance of the real reason of her cousins' Western trip, and it was in order to break the news to her that the doctor had wired her to meet him at the station, and to say nothing on the subject of her errand to Mrs. Randolph. Consequently, the poor little lady had been filled by apprehensions of something dreadful having happened to one or both of the travelers, and had departed in a state of perturbation well calculated to arouse Mrs. Randolph's suspicions that something was troubling her.

There was a moment's pause, and then Mrs. Randolph went on.

"I never talk of my little girl to strangers—it is all too sacred for that—but you are not a stranger any more. I have loved you dearly ever since we stood together at my Barbara's grave, and you showed me by your silent sympathy how well you understood."

Marjorie could not speak, but she took her friend's hand, and stroked it softly, while Mrs. Randolph went on, calmly, though with a quiver in her voice:

"I used to try to make the children's birthdays as happy as possible; I thought they would be pleasant memories for them when they were older. Even the year after my husband died, when my heart was very sad, I wanted them to have a merry time. Little children's lives should never be saddened. I think you would have loved my little girl, Marjorie; she was very sweet."

"I know I should," said Marjorie, with a sob, that was half hysterical.

"I am afraid she was a sad rogue sometimes," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling; "Beverly and I often laugh even now over the memory of some of her pranks. I want him to remember all the bright, pleasant things, and not dwell too much on the sadness."

"Mammy told me about some of Barbara's pranks," said Marjorie, "she showed me her photograph, too."

Mrs. Randolph unfastened a small gold locket from a chain she always wore about her neck, and opened it. Inside was the miniature of a merry-faced girl of twelve—the same face that had looked at Marjorie from the photograph in Mammy's cabin.

"That was taken only a few weeks before my little girl went away," she said. "She was just twelve then. I suppose she would look older now, but I can never think of Babs as growing up."

Then Marjorie had an inspiration. How it came she never knew, but she had yielded to it before giving herself time to think.

"That picture reminds me of some one I know," she said, and the moment the words were out she would have given everything she possessed to have left them unsaid.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Randolph asked, her eyes still resting lovingly on the face of the miniature.

"A girl who has been at my home since last summer," said Marjorie, who was beginning to feel cold and sick with excitement and apprehension, but was determined to go on now that she had begun. "She came to the ranch one day all by herself. She had walked all the way from the railroad. It was a very strange case; she had had an accident, and forgotten everything about herself, even her own name."

"Forgotten her name!" said Mrs. Randolph, incredulously. "What a curious thing—are you sure her story was true?"

"Oh, yes, quite sure. She was such a dear girl, we couldn't doubt her. Besides Father wrote to the people she had lived with since her accident, and they said everything Undine had told us was true. We called her Undine because it was pretty, and we didn't know her real name."

"Poor child," said Mrs. Randolph, closing the miniature as she spoke. "Has she never remembered anything about herself since?"

"She hadn't a week ago," said Marjorie, wondering how her shaking lips formed the words, "but perhaps she may some time. Oh, Mrs. Randolph, suppose she should remember, and it should turn out that she had relatives—brothers and sisters, and—and perhaps a mother, who had been mourning her as dead! Can you think how her mother would feel? Can you even imagine it, Mrs. Randolph?"

"I think such joy would be more than any mother could bear," said Mrs. Randolph, softly. "But such strange, romantic things don't often happen in this world, Marjorie dear. The poor child's mother is probably dead, or she would have found her long ago. How did the accident happen?"

Marjorie gave a great gasp.

"We—we are not quite sure," she said. "Undine says the people at the hospital told her a stone must have fallen on her head. She was found in San Francisco under some ruins, after—after the earthquake."

"After the earthquake," repeated Mrs. Randolph in a strange, startled tone, and she grew suddenly pale. "Oh, poor, poor child! At least my little Barbara was spared those horrors. Why have you never told me about this girl before, Marjorie?"

"Because Beverly said it made you sad to have any one speak of the earthquake, and I couldn't have told Undine's story without mentioning it. It was dreadful, of course, but she was saved. Think of it, Mrs. Randolph, she was saved, and perhaps some time—" poor Marjorie's over-strained nerves gave way, and she burst into tears.

Mrs. Randolph had grown very white; she was trembling, too, but she laid a firm hand on the girl's shoulder.

"Marjorie," she cried sharply, "what does this mean? Why are you telling me all this? Something has happened, I know it has—oh, Marjorie, for God's sake tell me what it is! My little girl is dead; they brought her home to me, though they would not let me see her dear face. Marjorie, why do you cry so? You must tell me at once, do you hear? I say at once."

"Oh, Mrs. Randolph, darling Mrs. Randolph, it isn't anything sad, indeed it isn't," sobbed Marjorie, with her arms about her friend's neck. "It's something beautiful; more beautiful and wonderful than you can ever imagine. I can't say any more, but Beverly will be here very soon, and he will tell you. Try to think of the very greatest joy that could possibly come to any one, and perhaps you will begin to have an idea what it is."

Marjorie paused, conscious of the fact that some one had entered the room. In their excitement neither she nor Mrs. Randolph had noticed the opening of the door, or the sound of an approaching footstep. But now as she lifted her face from her friend's shoulder, Marjorie saw two figures standing on the threshold; they were Dr. Randolph and Beverly. At the same moment Mrs. Randolph also recognized them, and held out her arms to her son.

"Beverly," she cried, "tell me what it is! You know, I see it in your face. Oh, Beverly, my darling, it isn't—it can't be news of Barbara?"

"Yes, Mother, it is!" cried the boy, gathering her in his strong arms. "Can you bear a great shock, Mother—a great joyful shock?—because if you can, Uncle George and I have something to tell you."

Marjorie waited for no more; such scenes were not for other eyes to see or other ears to hear. With a bound, she was out of the room, and flying across the corridor. In her flight she darted by two other figures without even seeing them; a trembling, white-faced girl clinging nervously to an older woman, whose face was scarcely less white than her own. She had but one thought: to reach her room before the burst of hysterical excitement completely overpowered her. A frantic ring at the Carletons' bell, and then the door was thrown open, and she was clinging to some one—presumably Hortense—crying and laughing both together.

"Oh, Hortense, Hortense," she wailed, "I've told her, and they've come! You don't think the shock will kill her, do you?"

But it was not Hortense who answered, or who held the hysterical child in loving, motherly arms.

"Marjorie, my dear little Marjorie, don't tremble so! Everything will be all right, my darling, I know it will, and here are Aunt Jessie and I come all the way from Arizona to give you a big surprise."