mother is perfectly lovely," declared Marjorie, the moment
the door of the Randolph's apartment had closed behind them. "Is she
always so kind to strangers?"

"Mother's a brick," said Beverly, heartily. "She's kind to everybody,
and always doing things for people. She's a good sport, too. I really
believe, she is looking forward to the game to-morrow almost as much as
I am. It's because she's so unselfish; she never stops to think of
herself so long as other people are having a good time."

"My aunt is like that," said Marjorie, with shining eyes. "She is a
great invalid, and suffers very much most of the time, but she never
complains, and is always interested in everything we do. Is your uncle a
surgeon?"

"Yes," said Beverly, rather surprised by the abruptness of the question;
"he is a very fine surgeon, I believe. Why do you want to know? Aren't
you satisfied with the way your wrist is bandaged?"

"Oh, it isn't that," said Marjorie, blushing; "it was only something I
was thinking of that made me ask the question. This is our apartment;
now I can take the bottle, and not bother you any more. Oh, there's a
letter in the box; perhaps it's for me!" And forgetting everything else
in her eagerness for home news, Marjorie sprang forward to possess
herself of the contents of the letter-box.

"It is for me!" she cried joyfully, glancing at the postmark. "It's from
Undine; the first one I've had from her."

"Undine," repeated Beverly, his eyes beginning to twinkle; "I had no
idea you counted water sprites among your acquaintances."

"She isn't a water sprite," laughed Marjorie. "She's just a girl like
anybody else. We call her Undine because nobody knows what her real name
is. It's a very strange story indeed. She was found under some ruins in
the streets of San Francisco right after the earthquake, and we think a
stone or something must have fallen on her head, for she was unconscious
for a long time, and now she can't remember anything that happened
before the earthquake, not even her own name. She isn't crazy, or
anything like that, but she has simply forgotten everything. Did you
ever hear of a case like that before?"

"I think I have read of such cases, but I imagine they are rather rare.
It is very interesting, but if you don't mind, Miss Marjorie, please
don't mention it to my mother. Any mention of the San Francisco
earthquake is very painful to her. My little sister was killed there."

"No, indeed I won't,"