The Girl from Arizona Part 29

"It's Undine," repeated Marjorie, with obstinate persistence; "it's exactly like her; I would know her anywhere."

"But who is Undine? I never even heard of her?"

"Yes, you did; I told you about her once, and you said I mustn't mention her to your mother, because she was hurt in the earthquake. We called her Undine, because she couldn't remember her real name, or anything that happened to her before the earthquake. That's her photograph, Beverly, I tell you it is--it is!"

Beverly had grown very pale, but he made a great effort at self-control.

"Don't talk nonsense, Marjorie," he said, almost angrily; "I tell you that is my sister's photograph. I can show you another just like it at home."

"Beverly," cried Marjorie, clasping her hands, and speaking in a tone of sudden conviction, "I am not talking nonsense. That is the picture of the girl who has been at the ranch since last August. She was found in the street just after the earthquake, half buried under some ruins.

She was unconscious, and they took her to a hospital. She has never been able to remember anything about herself since. Your sister was in the earthquake, too; you think she was killed, but perhaps--oh, Beverly dear, let us go home quick, and tell your uncle all about it."

Mrs. Randolph was in the library reading. Twice she had put down her book, and gone to the window to look out. It was growing dark, and had begun to snow.

"How late they are," she said to herself, with an anxious glance at the clock. "They ought to be back by this time, but I suppose they have stayed listening to Mammy's stories, and forgotten the time."

She sat down again by the fire, and took up her book. But she was feeling restless and nervous that afternoon, though she could not have told why, and after reading a page, she closed the book again.

"I wish they would come," she said, impatiently. "No one knows what may have happened; they may never have reached Mammy's cabin. I think I will go and speak to George. He will laugh at me for worrying, but that will be better than sitting here by myself. There's the clock striking six; they should have been in an hour ago."

She rose, and was moving towards the door when she heard an approaching footstep, and in another moment her brother-in-law himself came into the room.

"I was just coming to look for you, George," she said; "I am getting a little anxious about the children."

"The children are all right," said the doctor, quietly, sinking into the arm-chair by the fire; "they came in half an hour ago, and have gone to their rooms. Marjorie was feeling a little upset, and I advised her to go and lie down till dinner-time."

Mrs. Randolph turned towards the door again.

"I think I will go and see if there is anything I can do for her," she said. "It isn't like Marjorie to give up; I'm afraid she isn't well."

But Dr. Randolph held out a detaining hand.

"Sit down, Barbara," he said, "I want to talk to you. There is nothing the matter with Marjorie or Beverly either. They have had a long ride, and stopped at Mammy's for waffles. I want to ask you a favor. I have just received some important news, which will necessitate my going West at once, and I want you to let Beverly go with me."

Mrs. Randolph was very much surprised.

"But, George dear," she remonstrated gently, "college begins again on Monday--do you think it wise to take the boy away just now?"

"I shall not be gone more than a week, and I want Beverly for company.

He has never seen much of his own country, and this trip to Arizona will do him an immense amount of good. As for college, a few days more or less won't make any material difference, and he can make up for lost time when he gets back."

Mrs. Randolph still looked doubtful, but the doctor was Beverly's guardian, and since her husband's death she had been accustomed to depend upon his judgment and advice. So instead of arguing the point, she only said:

"Of course he may go if you think best, George, only it does seem foolish to take him away so soon again after his holidays."

"I do think it best, Barbara," said the doctor, decidedly. "I want the boy with me very much. I must start as soon as possible. Do you think you could persuade Emma Patterson to go home with you and Marjorie to-morrow, and stay till Beverly and I come back?"

"I can try," said Mrs. Randolph, who was still unconvinced of the wisdom of this sudden whim of her brother-in-law's, and a little uneasy as well. "Emma has promised to visit us later; perhaps she would be willing to come now instead. You know, George dear, I never ask you about your cases, but this seems so very sudden--are you going to see a patient?"

"Yes," said the doctor, quietly. "I may be able to tell you more about the case when I come back, but I cannot now."

Mrs. Randolph regarded him anxiously.

"I am afraid you are not well, George," she said, "you are dreadfully pale. Is that why you don't want to take this long journey alone?"

"Not exactly. I am perfectly well, but--well, the fact is, this may prove a very trying business, and I want the boy with me."

"Then you shall certainly have him," said Mrs. Randolph, with decision.

"Have you spoken to Beverly on the subject?"

"Yes, and he is most anxious to go. Now I must make arrangements about accommodations on the train, for I want to be off early in the morning, if possible. Wouldn't it be a good idea to telephone Emma Patterson at once, and see if she can be ready to go with you and Marjorie?"

Mrs. Randolph stood for a moment, looking after her brother-in-law as he left the room.

"There is something wrong," she said: "I never saw George so agitated before. I wish I knew what it was, but doctors don't like to be questioned. I hate to have Beverly lose a whole week of college, but if his uncle needs him, I have nothing more to say." And, with a resigned sigh, she went away to telephone to her cousin, Mrs. Patterson.

CHAPTER XXI

UNDINE REMEMBERS

"'A Highland laddie lives over the lea; A laddie both n.o.ble and gallant and free, Who loved a la.s.sie as n.o.ble as he-- A bonnie sweet la.s.sie; the maid of Dundee.'"

MRS. GRAHAM glanced up from her sewing, with a smile.

"What a sweet voice that child has," she said; "with training I believe she would sing remarkably well."

"I love to hear her singing about the house," said Miss Jessie, also pausing to listen to the clear young voice; "I wonder where she learned all those old songs. I remember that ballad, but I haven't heard it since I was a child."

"She probably picks them up from Jim," Mrs. Graham suggested; "he is always singing about the place."

"I don't think I ever heard Jim sing this one," said Miss Jessie, reflectively. "Susie, I do wish we could find out something about the child's family. I feel sure she has been brought up among people of refinement."

"She is a very attractive girl," Mrs. Graham agreed, "but if she has relatives it seems incredible that they should never have made the slightest effort to find her. Donald and I were talking about her last night. He thinks that any relatives she had must have been killed in the earthquake. It seems the only explanation. There is nothing for us to do but wait patiently in the hope that Undine may some time be able to tell us everything herself. I confess I should be very sorry to part with her; she has been a great help and comfort since Marjorie went away."

"She has indeed," said Miss Jessie, heartily. "I have grown very fond of her, and I think she cares for us, too. We should have another letter from Marjorie by this time."

"Yes, Jim has gone for the mail; he may bring one this afternoon. It does my heart good to know the dear child is having such a happy holiday. I would like to write and thank Mrs. Randolph for all her kindness to Marjorie; she must be a lovely woman."

"I am sure she is, and the son must be a nice boy, too, judging from what Marjorie says. Our little girl has made some good friends, as I felt sure she would."

Mrs. Graham rose, and began folding up her work.

"I must go to the kitchen to look after Juanita," she said. "It is a lovely afternoon. Why don't you get Undine to wheel you out in the sun for an hour?"

"I think I will," said Miss Jessie, with a glance out of the windows at the cloudless sky and brilliant winter sunshine. "Ah, here comes Undine.