close to her as
if he loved her, and she left the stable feeling somehow cheered and
comforted.

On the way back she passed the old playhouse, and could not resist the
temptation of going in for one more last good-bye, although she knew it
would mean another fit of crying. The sight of the old toys and picture
books--relics of the childhood that would never come back--affected her
even more than the parting with Roland had done, and sinking down on the
bench where she had dozed on the afternoon of Undine's arrival, she gave
herself up to a few minutes of quiet, undisturbed grief.

She had just dried her eyes, and was wondering if she could manage to
reach her own room, and wash her face, without being seen by any of her
family, when the door, which had been partly closed, was pushed gently
open, and Undine came in.

At sight of her friend, Undine drew back, blushing.

"I didn't know you were here," she said, apologetically; "I'll go away
if you want to be alone."

"Come in," said Marjorie, making room for her on the bench. "Were you
looking for me?"

Undine's eyes drooped, and the color deepened in her cheeks.

"I came to cry," she said simply.

"To cry?" repeated Marjorie in surprise; "what did you want to cry for?"

"Because you're going away," Undine confessed, nestling closer to her
friend.

Marjorie slipped an arm round her. "I didn't know you cared so much,"
she said. "You'll have Aunt Jessie, and you're so fond of her."

"I shall miss you dreadfully," whispered Undine tremulously. "You've
been so good to me, and--and you were the first one to believe in me.
All the rest thought I was telling stories, even Miss Jessie."

"I couldn't help believing you," said Marjorie, laughing. "When you
looked at me with those big eyes of yours, and told me all those strange
things, I felt sure they were true, though it was the queerest story I
had ever heard. I think I should have to believe every word you ever
told me."

Undine smiled.

"I don't think your uncle believes it all even yet," she said. "He looks
at me so queerly sometimes that it makes me uncomfortable. I wish you
were not going away with him."

"Oh, he is very kind," said Marjorie, loyally. "It's so good of him to
be willing to take me to New York, and send me to school for the whole
winter. I'm sorry you don't like him, Undine."

"Well, he may be kind, but he isn't nearly as nice as your father and
mother. How do you know you are going to li