The Girl from Arizona Part 15

"It's a shame you couldn't have gone to the game with the others."

"Oh, that wasn't Aunt Julia's fault," said Marjorie, loyally. "Her nephew only sent two tickets, and Elsie says it's almost impossible to get extra ones. They were very kind about it, and Aunt Julia hated to leave me behind."

Beverly and his mother exchanged a significant glance, and then Beverly offered to accompany the visitor as far as her own apartment for the purpose of carrying the arnica bottle, which Mrs. Randolph insisted she should keep in case of necessity. Marjorie protested, but Beverly was firm, and the two young people left the room together, after Mrs.

Randolph had kissed the girl, and told her she must come again very soon.

CHAPTER XII

A MOTOR RIDE AND A FOOTBALL GAME

"I THINK your 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 s.h.i.+ning 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, blus.h.i.+ng; "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 n.o.body 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," promised Marjorie, "but how very sad about your sister. Would you mind telling me how it happened? Don't talk about it, though, if you would rather not."

"I don't mind in the least," said Beverly, "but it was such a frightful shock to my mother that we don't like to have her dwell on it any any more than can be helped. My sister Barbara was in San Francisco with my aunt at the time of the earthquake. She had been very ill with scarlet fever in the winter, and the doctor had ordered a change for her. My aunt was going to California for a few weeks, and offered to take Barbara with her. Mother couldn't leave home, for she was taking care of my grandmother, who was ill at the time, and I was away at school. So it ended in my aunt and Barbara going by themselves. My aunt intended taking a maid, but the one she had engaged disappointed her at the last moment, and as all the railroad accommodations had been secured, she decided to start, and trust to finding a suitable maid in San Francisco, which was to be their first stopping place. They reached San Francisco, and my aunt wrote my mother that she had engaged a very satisfactory girl, and two days later came the earthquake."

Beverly paused abruptly, and Marjorie, her face full of sympathy, laid a kind little hand on his arm.

"Don't tell me any more," she said, gently; "it must have been very terrible."

"It was," said Beverly, sadly. "Part of the wall of the hotel where they were staying fell in, and they were both instantly killed. We feared for a time that my mother would never recover from the shock."

"And was the maid killed, too?" Marjorie asked. She was longing to hear more, but did not like to ask too many questions.

"We never knew; you see, she was a stranger to us. My uncle advertised in all the California papers, in the hope of finding her, and perhaps learn more particulars, but no answer ever came. She was probably killed, poor thing."

"Your mother spoke of her little girl this afternoon," said Marjorie; "she said she would have been just about my age."

"Yes, she would have been fifteen this January. It is rather odd, but when I saw you that first morning in the park you somehow reminded me of Babs. She was such a jolly little girl. She was four years younger than I, but there were only we two, and we were always chums."

There was a look of such genuine sorrow on the boy's face that impulsive Marjorie held out her hand.

"I'm so sorry," she said and that was all, but Beverly understood, and he went back to his mother's apartment with a very kindly feeling for the little girl from Arizona.

Once in her own room Marjorie speedily forgot the Randolphs and their troubles in the delight of a letter from home. Undine's handwriting was rather immature for a girl of her age, but the letter itself was most interesting and satisfactory.

"November Fifteenth.

"DEAR MARJORIE:

"Your aunt thinks you would like to have a letter from me, and although I can't see how you can possibly care about hearing from such a stupid person, I am very glad to write.

"You have no idea how much I have missed you. If your mother and aunt had not been so very kind I don't think I could have borne it, but, oh, Marjorie dear they are so good; I do hope I can deserve just a little of all they are doing for me. Your mother is making me a new dress--isn't it sweet of her? She sent to Albuquerque for the material; it is dark blue serge with a little stripe in it, and just as pretty as it can be. I take a sewing lesson every day from Miss Jessie, but I know as well as can be that I shall never learn to make things as you do.

"Another thing that makes me very happy is that your mother is giving me lessons, and letting me recite to her every evening. Even if I am stupid and can't remember my own name, I don't want to grow up ignorant. We are reading English history together, and it is very strange, but I almost always know what is coming next. Mrs. Graham says she feels sure I must have learned the same things before.

"A very strange thing happened to me one day last week; I think I almost remembered. It was the day your long letter to Miss Jessie came, and she was reading it aloud to us when it happened. It was just like the day I heard Jim singing 'Mandalay'

for the first time. It seemed to me just for one minute that I was going to remember everything, and I was so excited I screamed, and frightened Mrs. Graham and Miss Jessie. Then in a flash it was all gone again, and I was so unhappy I couldn't help crying. I am afraid I gave them a good deal of trouble, but they were so kind!

Afterward Miss Jessie talked to me for a long time, and made me promise to try not to worry any more about not remembering. She said some lovely comforting things about my being helpful and trying to take your place, and they made me very happy, although I am afraid I didn't really deserve them.

"I ride almost every afternoon, and I think Roland is beginning to like me. I never forget his sugar, and I am teaching him to put his nose in my pocket for it. I think I must have taught another horse that some time, it seemed so natural, but I am not sure. I have promised your aunt not to talk about the things I think I used to do.

"I had such a beautiful dream last night. I thought some one came and told me I was very rich, and I was so happy, because I would have the money to pay a surgeon to come and see Miss Jessie. I was just planning out how I was to do it when I woke up. I have thought a great deal about what you told me that last evening, but of course I have never mentioned it to any one. I don't suppose you have had time to meet a surgeon yet.

"I must stop writing now, and study my history.

Everybody is well, and they all send heaps of love and kisses. Your mother says 'don't let Marjorie know how much we miss her,' but I am sure you know that without any telling. I don't want to be selfish, but I should just love a letter all to myself some time. New York must be a very interesting place, and your letters telling about it all are wonderful.

"With a heart full of love, I am "Your true but nameless friend, "UNDINE."

Marjorie spent a busy evening over her lessons, and went to bed at nine o'clock instead of writing the home letters she had intended.

"They would be so sorry to know I was here all by myself while the others were off having a good time," she thought, resolutely crus.h.i.+ng down that troublesome little feeling of envy. "If I wrote to-night I should have to mention it, but if I wait till Sunday when Aunt Julia and Elsie are back again, I won't have to say anything about their having been away. I promised Mother to let her know about all the things, but some of them will keep till I get home and can tell her myself."

But in spite of the throbbing pain in her wrist, and the disappointment in her heart, Marjorie soon feel asleep, and did not wake until it was broad daylight, and Hortense, with a note in her hand, was standing by her bedside.

"It is only seven," the maid said apologetically, as Marjorie sat up in bed, and rubbed her eyes. "I would not have called you so early, but the hall boy has brought this note, and waits for an answer."

"What in the world can it be?" exclaimed Marjorie in astonishment, as she tore open the envelope, but at the first glance at the contents her face brightened, and she uttered a joyful little cry. This is what she read.

"MY DEAR MARJORIE:

"I know you won't object to my calling you Marjorie, because you say you like being a little girl. I am writing to ask if you will go with us to New Haven to-day. We are going in my brother-in-law's car, and are to be ready to start at nine o'clock. The friend we expected would go with us has been prevented at the last moment, which gives us an extra seat in the car as well as a ticket for the game, and we should be delighted to have you with us. I am sure your aunt would not object, and I will explain everything to her myself. I would have written you last evening, but it was after ten when we learned that the friend we had expected would be unable to go. We have ordered breakfast for eight o'clock, and would be glad to have you take it with us. Be sure to wrap up well, for it may be a cold ride, and we shall not get back till late.

"Hoping that you will be able to join us, I remain

"Sincerely your friend, "BARBARA RANDOLPH."