said
Beverly. "We never dreamed of that, because we felt so sure you and Aunt
Helen had roomed together. But Babs dear, did you never remember
anything at all--not even the least little thing?"

Undine shook her head.

"I used to have little gleams of memory sometimes," she said, "but they
were gone again in a minute. I had one the first time I heard Jim sing
'Mandalay,' and for one second I think I almost remembered you, Beverly.
Another time I almost remembered was when Mrs. Graham was reading a
letter from Marjorie, in which she mentioned your name for the first
time. I kept saying 'Randolph, Randolph' over and over to myself for a
long time, but after the first minute the words didn't seem to mean
anything to me. It wasn't till yesterday when I read that letter, and
saw all your names together--Mother's and yours, and Uncle George's and
then that part about going to Barbara's grave--that it all came back
with a rush, and I was so frightened that I fainted."

Later in the day Undine--or Barbara, as I suppose we must call her
now--had a long talk with her uncle. Dr. Randolph had insisted on
Beverly's going out for a walk. The boy was utterly worn out from
excitement and suspense, and his uncle feared he would be really ill if
precautions were not taken. So he was sent off for a long tramp over the
ranch with Mr. Graham, and the doctor sat down by his little niece's
bedside, and tried to draw her thoughts away from painful memories, by
talking of Marjorie, and of her own life on the ranch.

"They have all been so good to me here, Uncle George," Barbara said, the
grateful tears starting to her eyes. "If you could have seen me when I
first came! I am sure I looked like a tramp, and I was so miserable I
didn't care much what became of me. I don't think many people would have
believed my crazy story, but they took me right in without a word, and
have treated me just as if I belonged to them ever since. Aren't Mrs.
Graham and Miss Jessie lovely?"

"They are indeed," said the doctor, heartily. "We owe them a debt of
gratitude that can never be repaid. Miss Graham has one of the sweetest
faces I have ever seen. Has she been a cripple all her life?"

Barbara caught her breath as a sudden recollection flashed into her
mind.

"Uncle George," she cried excitedly, "aren't you a great surgeon?"

"I am a surgeon certainly," said her uncle, smiling, "but I don't know
just what you would call a great one; why do you want to k