hen I first came here it was all
quite strange, and though I'm not a bit afraid of horses, I'm horribly
afraid of cows. A girl who had lived long on a ranch couldn't be afraid
of cows, could she?"

Marjorie assented, and the two girls rode on in silence for several
minutes. Then Undine spoke again.

"There's another curious thing that I haven't told you. That book I'm
reading to your aunt--'Lorna Doone,' you know--I'm sure I've read it
before. I know what is going to happen in every chapter."

Marjorie looked much interested.

"Have you told Aunt Jessie about it?" she asked.

"No, I was afraid it might bother her. I don't think she or your mother
like to have me talk about the things I remember."

"That's only because they're afraid you will worry and make yourself
ill," Marjorie explained. "You remember what a dreadful headache you had
the day you heard Jim singing 'Mandalay.' They're really tremendously
interested."

"Are they?" said Undine, looking pleased. "I was afraid they thought me
silly. At first I know they thought I was a fraud, and I'm sure I don't
blame them. How could any one believe such a queer story? And yet it's
all true, every word."

"They believe it now, at any rate," said Marjorie, "and they're just as
much interested as I am. Mother says she can't help worrying when she
thinks of your friends, and how they may be grieving for you."

"Miss Brent said she didn't believe I had any friends or they would have
come to look for me," said Undine sadly.

"But you must have belonged to somebody," persisted Marjorie, "and it
isn't likely all your family were killed in the earthquake, even if some
of them were. Then you do remember some things--there was the person who
sang 'Mandalay.'"

"But I can't remember who it was; I only know there was somebody who
used to sing it. I almost remembered for a minute that day, but it was
gone in a flash, and it has never come back since."

"Well, don't let's talk any more about worrying things this glorious
afternoon," broke in Marjorie, noticing the troubled sound in her
friend's voice. "Let's have a good gallop, and forget everything else.
Come along, Roland."

Away flew Roland, admonished by a gentle tap from his mistress, and he
was followed closely by Undine's pony. The next half hour was one of
unalloyed enjoyment to both girls. The quick motion, the bright
sunshine, the keen air, all conspired to banish thoughts of care or
perplexity from Undine's