Marjorie declared afterwards that she was sure that was the happiest moment of her life, but at the time the joyful surprise, coming so soon after the nervous strain of the past hour, proved almost too much for her, and she could do nothing for some time but hold her mother tight, and cry as if her heart would break.

"It's the one thing I've been wishing for every day, and praying for every night since I came to New York," Marjorie said to her aunt, late that evening, when Miss Graham was in bed, and her niece was sitting beside her, holding her hand. "But I never dared hope it would really happen, even when I knew Dr. Randolph had gone to Arizona. We were all so excited about Barbara; it didn't seem as if he or Beverly would be able to think of anything else."

"It was all Undine's doing," said Miss Jessie, smiling. She was looking pale and tired, but very happy and Marjorie gazed at her aunt, with shining eyes.

"You know it was Undine who told her uncle about my accident," the invalid went on. "Dr. Randolph made an examination, and he hopes that I may be much helped by an operation. He is going to bring another surgeon to see me to-morrow, and if they agree in their opinion, I am to go to a hospital."

Miss Graham spoke cheerfully, but there was a slight tremor in her voice, and Marjorie grew suddenly grave. They were both silent for a moment, and then Marjorie said:

"Isn't Beverly a dear, and don't you like Dr. Randolph ever so much, too?"

"I do indeed," said Miss Jessie, heartily. "I shall never forget their kindness during that long journey. As for Undine, she could not have been more devoted to me if she had been my own little niece. It has been a wonderful experience, Marjorie; I never expected to see the East again."

Marjorie bent and kissed her.

"Beautiful things do happen in the world as well as sad ones, don't they?" she said, softly. "When I think of you and Mother being here, and of Mrs. Randolph having found her Barbara, my heart is so full it seems as if it must surely burst. Here comes Mother; perhaps she will be able to tell us how Mrs. Randolph has borne the shock."

Mrs. Graham's news was most reassuring.

"I have seen Beverly," she said, "and he says his mother is quite calm now. At first they were anxious about her, but only for a little while. Beverly says his uncle thinks it was a fortunate thing you were able to prepare her a little before they came, Marjorie; otherwise it would have been more difficult to break the news to her."

Marjorie gave a long sigh of relief.

"I'm so glad it wasn't wrong," she said. "I was horribly frightened after I had begun, but when Mrs. Randolph showed me that picture, it came to me all at once to tell her about Undine. I thought that if she heard of one girl who was saved from the earthquake, she might be able to believe that another girl was saved, too."

Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie both smiled, and then Mrs. Graham said she must obey the doctor's instructions, and see that her sister-in-law was kept quiet, and went to sleep early.

Marjorie and her mother had a long talk that night, after Aunt Jessie was asleep, and the girl opened her heart as she had not done since leaving home, and Mrs. Graham learned of many things that she had not been told in letters.

"I think Elsie really does like me now," finished Marjorie, when she had told of the many heartaches caused by the fear that her cousin did not like her. "She has been very sweet since I came back from Virginia, and just as kind and sympathetic as she could be."

Mrs. Graham looked pleased.

"Elsie has been spoiled," she said, "but I believe she has the right stuff in her, after all. I am glad you have told me all these things, dear, although I understand your reasons for not writing them. You have had a harder time than I suspected, but I don't think it has done you any harm. Do you know, Marjorie, I am inclined to be rather proud of my little girl?"

Those last words of her mother's filled Marjorie's cup to the brim, and I doubt if in all the great city that night, there were two happier beings than she and Barbara Randolph.

But it was not all happiness for Marjorie during the next few days. There followed hours of keen anxiety about Aunt Jessie, and for a time she forgot everything else while she waited in suspense for the verdict of the two great surgeons.

It was on an afternoon three days later, that she and Barbara sat together in the Randolphs' parlor, waiting for the news, which was to tell them whether Jessie Graham was to go through life a helpless cripple, or be restored to health and strength once more. The day before she had been taken to a private hospital, and the girls knew that an operation was to be performed that afternoon. They were alone, for Mrs. Graham was with her sister-in-law, and Mrs. Randolph—almost as anxious as the others—had gone to the hospital for news, promising to return as soon as possible. So Marjorie and Barbara sat together side by side on the sofa, holding each other's hands, and waiting in almost breathless suspense.

"Mother will be sure to let us know just as soon as there's anything to tell," whispered Barbara, anxious to cheer her friend. "She says Uncle George told her he was very hopeful."

"I know," said Marjorie, "he told us all so, but I can't help being frightened when I think of all it means to Aunt Jessie. She doesn't say much, but I know how she must feel. Just think how we would feel if we hadn't walked a step for more than eight years."

"Where is your cousin this afternoon?" inquired Barbara, by way of changing the subject. She was almost as anxious as Marjorie, but she had been living at high pressure for so long, it was a relief to get down to commonplaces.

"I don't know," said Marjorie; "she was going out, but it rained so hard Aunt Julia wouldn't let her go, on account of her cold. Aunt Julia is very fussy about colds."

"Don't you think she would like to come in here with us?" suggested Barbara. "She may be lonely all by herself."

"I don't believe she is lonely," said Marjorie, doubtfully, "but if you think she might like to come—"

A ring at the door-bell brought Marjorie's sentence to an abrupt end, and both girls sprang to their feet.

"I'll see who it is," said Barbara; "it may be a message from Mother." And she flew to open the door, while Marjorie sank back in her seat, feeling suddenly cold and sick with fear.

But it was not a message from Mrs. Randolph; it was Elsie.

"I just came to ask if you had heard anything yet," she said, looking rather embarrassed, as she noticed the expression of disappointment on Barbara's face.

"No, we haven't," Barbara answered; "we thought it might be a message when we heard the bell. Won't you come in?"

Elsie hesitated.

"Do you really want me?" she asked, doubtfully; "I thought perhaps you would rather be by yourselves."

"Of course we want you," declared Barbara, heartily, while Marjorie—in the background—gave a little gasp of astonishment. Such humility from the proud Elsie was something that had never entered her imagination.

Elsie made no remark, but she came in, and followed Barbara to the sitting-room, where Marjorie smiled a welcome which appeared to set her cousin more at her ease.

"I am sure you must be almost as anxious as we are," said Barbara, "though of course you don't know Miss Jessie as well. No one could help loving her."

"No, they couldn't," agreed Elsie, in a rather low voice, and then she walked over to the window, and stood with her back to the others, looking out at the falling rain.

Nobody talked much during the next half-hour. Marjorie and Barbara both had lumps in their throats, and words did not come easily. Elsie, too, was unusually silent. There was another little excitement when the bell rang again, and Beverly came in. Beverly had been through a great deal during the past two weeks, but boys of eighteen cannot live on high pressure for very long without a reaction setting in. Beverly was a very natural, healthy-minded boy, and the reaction in his case took the form of unusually high spirits.

"Don't all have such long faces," he remarked, cheerfully, surveying the solemn little group. "Just make up your minds everything is coming out all right, and you'll see it will. I've got more faith in Uncle George than in any other surgeon in the country. Think of what he did for that English boy we met at the Bells'."

"I know Uncle George is wonderful," said Barbara, a trifle more hopeful, "but even he may not be able to cure everybody. You would be just as anxious as Marjorie and I, Beverly, if you knew dear Miss Jessie as well as we do."

"I didn't say I wasn't anxious. I only said I didn't see any use in such long faces before you know whether there was anything to be mournful about. How do you do, Miss Elsie? I haven't seen you in a week of Sundays."

In his present exuberant spirits, Beverly was quite ready to forget past unpleasantness, but Elsie had not forgotten, as her heightened color and embarrassed manner plainly showed.

Beverly went to the piano, and began playing rag-time, with the cheerful desire of raising the drooping spirits of the party. He proposed they should sing college songs, but nobody felt inclined for singing and the attempt proved a dismal failure.

"What a very uncomfortable thing suspense is," remarked Barbara, as the clock struck five.

"You would say so if you had been through the suspense Marjorie and I have," her brother said. "We know something of what suspense means, don't we, Marjorie?"

"Indeed we do," said Marjorie, rousing herself from present anxieties with an effort. "Oh, Beverly, those awful days when you and your uncle were on your way to Arizona, and I couldn't be absolutely sure I hadn't made a mistake about that photo after all. Suppose I had been mistaken, and you had had that terrible disappointment!"

"Well, you were not mistaken, you see," broke in Beverly, who felt that the recollection of those days was still too vivid to bear discussion. "Come and sit by me, Babs," and he made room for his sister on the piano stool.

But all suspense, however long, must come to an end at last, and just as the clock was striking half past five, there was another ring at the bell, followed by a simultaneous rush to the door. Only Marjorie remained behind. Until that moment she had scarcely realized how great her anxiety was, and her knees shook so that she could not rise from her chair. She heard all the others talking at once, apparently asking some question, and then Mrs. Randolph's voice, but she could not hear her words.

"Marjorie, Marjorie, where are you?" cried Barbara joyfully; "here's Mother!"

"I'm here," said Marjorie, faintly, and the next moment Mrs. Randolph was beside her, holding both her cold hands. Marjorie's eyes asked the question her lips refused to form, and Mrs. Randolph bent and kissed her.

"Marjorie dear," she said in a voice that was not quite steady, though she was smiling, "your mother wanted me to tell you that the operation is over, and that Dr. Randolph feels almost certain it has been successful."