ke New York?"

"Oh, I am sure I shall like it, as soon as I get used to things there."
Marjorie spoke with forced cheerfulness and choked down a rising lump in
her throat. "You see, it isn't like going to live among strangers," she
went on, as much for the sake of reassuring herself as her friend. "I
shall be with my own uncle and aunt, and then there will be Elsie."

"Perhaps you won't like Elsie; you've never seen her."

"Why, of course I shall like her. She's my own cousin, and only three
months older than I am. I have always thought that having a cousin was
the next best thing to having a sister."

"I wonder if I ever had a sister," Undine remarked irrelevantly.
"Somehow I don't believe I had, for when I say the word 'sister' it
never makes my heart beat the way it does when I say 'Mother.' I know I
had a mother, and I think I must have loved her very much."

"Perhaps that's because you've grown to love my mother," Marjorie
suggested; "she may remind you of yours."

Undine pressed her hand to her forehead, and the old bewildered look
came back into her eyes.

"I don't know," she said, with a sigh; "I don't know anything. Oh,
Marjorie, do you think I shall ever remember?"

"I'm sure you will," said Marjorie confidently, "and so is Aunt Jessie.
She says she's sure when you get well and strong it will make a great
difference, and that's why she wants you to be out in the air as much
as possible. You are ever so much better now than when you came, and
when you are better still, and have left off worrying, you'll wake up
some morning remembering everything; just wait and see if you don't."

Undine smiled, but the smile was rather sad.

"I try not to worry," she said, "and I'm happier here than I ever was
before, but I'm so frightened even now when I stop to think about it
all." Undine's sentence ended with an involuntary shudder.

"Look here, Undine," said Marjorie, with a sudden determination, "I'm
going to let you in to a great secret. You must promise not to speak to
any one about it, even Mother, for if it should never come to anything
it would be such a dreadful disappointment to everybody."

"I won't tell," promised Undine, beginning to look interested.

"It's about Aunt Jessie. Uncle Henry was speaking of Aunt Jessie one
day, and he thinks it such a pity a good surgeon couldn't see her. He
says she might be helped a great deal. There are no good surgeons here,
but Uncle Henry says there are a great m