"You're kind, too; I can see it in your face. Oh, please don't send me
away; I'm so tired and hungry, and I don't know where else I can
possibly go."

"And what are we to call you, my dear?" Mrs. Graham inquired, late that
evening, when the uninvited guest had been refreshed by a bath and a
hearty supper, and was lying back comfortably in the big rocker in the
living-room. "Did I understand Marjorie to say that you had been called
Sally?"

The stranger pouted. Now that her face was washed she was really very
pretty.

"I hate 'Sally,'" she said, impatiently; "it's not my name, and I don't
see why I need be called by it. I wish you'd call me something pretty."

Mrs. Graham looked a little doubtful, but Marjorie, who was regarding
this singular young person in a kind of fascinated awe--half expecting
to see her vanish at any moment as mysteriously as she had
come--hastened to the rescue.

"I've thought of a beautiful name for her, Mother," she said, eagerly.
"Why can't we call her Undine--at least till she remembers what her name
really is? She didn't come out of a fountain, but she really did come
almost as mysteriously as Undine came to the fisherman's hut, in the
story. Would you like to be called Undine, Sally?"

"I should love it," declared the visitor in a tone of satisfaction and
as Marjorie generally had her way, and Undine really seemed as good a
name as any other, the matter was settled, and the new Undine fell
asleep that night, happier than she had ever been since that strange
waking in the California hospital, more than two years before.

CHAPTER III

TRYING TO REMEMBER

"AND so Undine went back into the fountain, carrying the knight,
Hildebrand, with her, and nobody ever saw either of them again. I always
wished it hadn't ended there, but had gone on to tell what became of the
fisherman and his wife, and all the other people. That's the great
trouble with stories; they are so apt to end just where you want to hear
more. If I ever wrote a book I should put a chapter at the end, telling
what became of all the characters afterward."

The two girls were sitting together on the porch; Marjorie busily
engaged in darning stockings; the new Undine patiently hemming a towel.
It was a week since the arrival of "the mysterious stranger," as
Marjorie called her, and she had already become an established member of
the household. Marjorie accepted the mystery of a girl who didn't know
her own name,