ear-stained face from Marjorie's shoulder. "I want very much to know. I
am trying to remember something about it, and if you could tell me where
you learned it it might help me."

Jim stared at her rather stupidly; then his face brightened.

"I guess I do remember, now I come to think of it," he said slowly. "It
was in Texas. There was an English chap there, who was forever singing
it. I picked it up from him. There were a lot of verses to it but I
don't know 'em all."

Undine shook her head hopelessly.

"Thank you," she said; "I don't believe I was ever in Texas." And
without another word, she turned and went into the house.

It was more than an hour later when Mrs. Graham knocked softly at the
door of the little room which had been given to the strange guest. She
waited a moment, and then, receiving no answer, turned the handle and
went in. Undine was lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She
was so still that Mrs. Graham thought she must be asleep, and was
turning away again when there was a slight movement on the bed, and with
a long sigh, the girl lifted her head.

At sight of her hostess, Undine sprang to her feet, and began pushing
the tumbled hair back from her eyes. She was very white, and there was a
drawn, suffering look on her face, which went to Mrs. Graham's motherly
heart.

"I beg your pardon," said Undine, humbly. "I'm afraid you must all think
me very silly and troublesome. I didn't mean to make a fuss, but when I
heard that boy singing 'Mandalay' it seemed for just a minute as if I
were going to remember something, and then it was all gone again. I
thought that perhaps if I lay very still with my eyes shut tight, and
thought as hard as I could, it might come again, but it didn't."

"Sit down, dear," said Mrs. Graham, kindly, and seating herself on the
edge of the bed, she drew Undine down beside her. "Does your head ache?"

"It aches dreadfully," confessed Undine, pressing her hand to her
forehead. "It always does when I try very hard to remember."

"I was afraid so. It isn't good for you to try to remember in this way;
it won't help things at all, and may make them much worse. You must
promise me not to try to think so hard again. When your memory comes
back it will come naturally, and without any forcing. Now I want to talk
to you about something quite different. Mr. Graham has had a letter from
the 'Home For The Friendless' at Oakland, and another from your friend
Miss Brent, o