mes," said Mrs. Randolph,
smiling; "Beverly and I often laugh even now over the memory of some of
her pranks. I want him to remember all the bright, pleasant things, and
not dwell too much on the sadness."

"Mammy told me about some of Barbara's pranks," said Marjorie, "she
showed me her photograph, too."

Mrs. Randolph unfastened a small gold locket from a chain she always
wore about her neck, and opened it. Inside was the miniature of a
merry-faced girl of twelve--the same face that had looked at Marjorie
from the photograph in Mammy's cabin.

"That was taken only a few weeks before my little girl went away," she
said. "She was just twelve then. I suppose she would look older now, but
I can never think of Babs as growing up."

Then Marjorie had an inspiration. How it came she never knew, but she
had yielded to it before giving herself time to think.

"That picture reminds me of some one I know," she said, and the moment
the words were out she would have given everything she possessed to have
left them unsaid.

"Who is it?" Mrs. Randolph asked, her eyes still resting lovingly on the
face of the miniature.

"A girl who has been at my home since last summer," said Marjorie, who
was beginning to feel cold and sick with excitement and apprehension,
but was determined to go on now that she had begun. "She came to the
ranch one day all by herself. She had walked all the way from the
railroad. It was a very strange case; she had had an accident, and
forgotten everything about herself, even her own name."

"Forgotten her name!" said Mrs. Randolph, incredulously. "What a curious
thing--are you sure her story was true?"

"Oh, yes, quite sure. She was such a dear girl, we couldn't doubt her.
Besides Father wrote to the people she had lived with since her
accident, and they said everything Undine had told us was true. We
called her Undine because it was pretty, and we didn't know her real
name."

"Poor child," said Mrs. Randolph, closing the miniature as she spoke.
"Has she never remembered anything about herself since?"

"She hadn't a week ago," said Marjorie, wondering how her shaking lips
formed the words, "but perhaps she may some time. Oh, Mrs. Randolph,
suppose she should remember, and it should turn out that she had
relatives--brothers and sisters, and--and perhaps a mother, who had been
mourning her as dead! Can you think how her mother would feel? Can you
even imagine it, Mrs. Randolph?"

"I think such joy