The Girl from Arizona Part 2

"The wedding was last week, and Mrs. Hicks came on from Kansas. She is Miss Brent's sister, and her husband has a big cattle farm. Mrs. Hicks brought her baby with her, and they got me to help take care of it, and then Miss Brent persuaded her sister to take me home with her. I didn't want to go, for I knew I shouldn't like Mrs. Hicks, but Miss Brent said I must. We started yesterday, and it was awful. Mrs. Hicks kept saying she knew I would never be any use to her, and the baby was so heavy, and cried all the time. I had just about made up my mind to run away when Mrs. Hicks slapped me, and that settled it. I never was slapped before, and I couldn't stand it."

The brown eyes flashed indignantly, and there was a crimson spot in both the girl's cheeks. Marjorie had been listening to this strange story in breathless astonishment. It did not occur to her for a moment to doubt its truth. Before she could ask any more questions, however, she was brought back to a recollection of every-day life once more by the sound of her father's voice calling from the porch:

"Supper's ready, Marjorie."

Marjorie came down to earth with a rush, and hastily explaining to her new friend that she would be back in a minute, dashed away to the house, there to electrify her family with the astounding news that there was a strange girl in the playhouse, who had walked all the way from the railroad, and didn't know her own name.

When Marjorie returned five minutes later, she was accompanied by an excited group, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Miss Jessie, and the Mexican servant, Juanita. At sight of so many strangers the visitor shrank into a corner, and her eyes seemed to grow bigger and more frightened than ever, but when Mrs. Graham spoke to her in her kind, motherly voice, the pale face lighted up, and holding out both hands to Marjorie's mother, she exclaimed joyfully:

"You're kind, too; I can see it in your face. Oh, please don't send me away; I'm so tired and hungry, and I don't know where else I can possibly go."

"And what are we to call you, my dear?" Mrs. Graham inquired, late that evening, when the uninvited guest had been refreshed by a bath and a hearty supper, and was lying back comfortably in the big rocker in the living-room. "Did I understand Marjorie to say that you had been called Sally?"

The stranger pouted. Now that her face was washed she was really very pretty.

"I hate 'Sally,'" she said, impatiently; "it's not my name, and I don't see why I need be called by it. I wish you'd call me something pretty."

Mrs. Graham looked a little doubtful, but Marjorie, who was regarding this singular young person in a kind of fascinated awe--half expecting to see her vanish at any moment as mysteriously as she had come--hastened to the rescue.

"I've thought of a beautiful name for her, Mother," she said, eagerly.

"Why can't we call her Undine--at least till she remembers what her name really is? She didn't come out of a fountain, but she really did come almost as mysteriously as Undine came to the fisherman's hut, in the story. Would you like to be called Undine, Sally?"

"I should love it," declared the visitor in a tone of satisfaction and as Marjorie generally had her way, and Undine really seemed as good a name as any other, the matter was settled, and the new Undine fell asleep that night, happier than she had ever been since that strange waking in the California hospital, more than two years before.

CHAPTER III

TRYING TO REMEMBER

"AND so Undine went back into the fountain, carrying the knight, Hildebrand, with her, and n.o.body ever saw either of them again. I always wished it hadn't ended there, but had gone on to tell what became of the fisherman and his wife, and all the other people. That's the great trouble with stories; they are so apt to end just where you want to hear more. If I ever wrote a book I should put a chapter at the end, telling what became of all the characters afterward."

The two girls were sitting together on the porch; Marjorie busily engaged in darning stockings; the new Undine patiently hemming a towel.

It was a week since the arrival of "the mysterious stranger," as Marjorie called her, and she had already become an established member of the household. Marjorie accepted the mystery of a girl who didn't know her own name, and who apparently belonged to n.o.body, just as she would have accepted any other girl friend who might have come into her rather uneventful life. It had never even occurred to her to doubt the truth of Undine's strange story. The rest of the family had not been quite so easily satisfied, and for several days Mr. and Mrs. Graham had been inclined to regard the stranger with some doubt, even suspicion; but there was something very winning about this new Undine--she seemed such a simple, innocent child--so grateful for every kindness, and so eager to be of use in the household--that they gradually found themselves coming to believe in her, in spite of appearances.

"I am sure the child is telling the truth as far as she knows it," Aunt Jessie had said to her sister-in-law that morning. "It all sounds very strange and incredible, I know, but I can't doubt the truth in those honest eyes of hers. I am really growing quite fond of her already." To which Mrs. Graham had replied, with a smile:

"We shall know when Donald receives the answers to the letters he sent to the Home in Oakland and to the dressmaker."

As Marjorie concluded her remarks on the story of Undine, she glanced critically at her friend's work.

"You are hemming much better to-day," she said in a tone of satisfaction; "I am sure Mother will say you have improved."

Undine's face brightened.

"I hope she will--oh, I do hope so!" she said eagerly. "She is so dear, and I want to please her so much, but I'm afraid I'm very stupid."

"You are not stupid at all," declared Marjorie loyally. "You are much cleverer than I am about lots of things. It isn't your fault if you've never been taught to sew."

"There wasn't any time to learn at Miss Brent's," said Undine; "there were always such a lot of errands, and so many parcels to be carried home. I suppose if I had learned before the earthquake I shouldn't remember now."

"I don't know," said Marjorie thoughtfully; "you must have learned to read, and you haven't forgotten that."

"No, nor to write either. It's very queer about the things I remember and those I don't. Mr. Jackson used to asked me a great many questions, and he wrote down some of the things I told him, to show to a society he belonged to. Once a very funny thing happened. I had taken a dress home to a lady, and was waiting in the hall while she tried it on, to see if it had to go back for any alterations. There were some people in the parlor talking French. I don't know how I knew it was French, but I did, and I understood almost everything they said. I told Mr. Jackson, and he was so interested. He made me tell Miss Brent, too, and he wanted her to put another advertis.e.m.e.nt in the newspapers, but she said she hadn't any money to waste in advertising, and that if I had any relatives they would have come for me long ago."

"It's the most interesting thing I ever heard of in my life," declared Marjorie. "Aunt Jessie says she is sure your friends must have been educated people, because you never make mistakes in grammar."

Undine looked pleased.

"I'm glad your aunt thinks that," she said. "I should hate to talk in the way some of the girls at Miss Brent's did. They used to laugh at me and call me stuck up, but I didn't want to be like them. I hate rough girls. I dream about my mother sometimes, and I know she would be sorry to have me grow up rough and coa.r.s.e."

"It seems so strange that you can't even remember your mother," said Marjorie, reflectively. "I can't imagine that anything could possibly happen to me that would make me forget Mother."

A shadow crept into Undine's face, and the troubled, frightened look came back into her eyes.

"I don't know," she said, wearily; "I don't know anything. Oh, Marjorie, it frightens me so sometimes."

There was a quiver in the girl's voice, and kind-hearted Marjorie laid a protecting hand on hers.

"Never mind," she said, soothingly; "don't think any more about it than you can help. Perhaps it will all come back some time; Father thinks it will. He thinks the stone, or whatever it was, that fell on you, must have given your brain a terrible shock. He says he heard of a man once who was very badly hurt in a railroad accident, and couldn't remember anything for a long time. His family thought he must be dead, but suddenly his memory all came back to him, and he went home, and gave them a great surprise. Perhaps it will be like that with you some day."

"Miss Brent thinks all my people must have been killed in the earthquake," said Undine, with a sigh. "That might be the reason why n.o.body ever came to look for me. They say more people were killed than any one knew about. If I could only remember the very least thing that happened before, but I can't; it's just as if I came alive for the first time that day in the hospital. Oh, here comes your aunt; I'll go and help her with her chair." And dropping her towel on the floor of the porch, Undine darted into the house, whence she returned in a moment, carefully guiding Miss Graham's wheeled chair over the door-sill.

"Thank you, dear," Miss Graham said, kindly. "You are a very helpful little girl, but when you are as accustomed to me and my chair as Marjorie is, you will realize that I can manage very well. I heard your voices, and thought I would come out here for a little while; it's so much cooler than in the house."

"Won't you let me get your sewing, or your book, or something?" inquired Undine, hovering solicitously over the invalid.

"No, thank you. I have been sewing all the afternoon; helping Mrs.

Graham with the new parlor curtains, and I'm going to be lazy for a little while. I am afraid you dropped your own sewing, in your anxiety to help me."

Undine blushed as she stooped to pick up the discarded towel.

"I'm afraid I'm very careless," she said apologetically; "Miss Brent said I was, but I love to wait on people."

Miss Graham laughed, and she had such a merry, contagious laugh that she was speedily joined by Marjorie, and even Undine herself.

"It is very pleasant to be waited on," she said, "and I am sure you would make a capital nurse, Undine."

Undine looked pleased.

"I should like to be a nurse," she said. "I used to do lots of things for Mr. Jackson, and he liked to have me. I wish I could wait on you, because then I should feel that I was of some use, and that you weren't just keeping me because you were sorry for me."

There was an unmistakable wistfulness in Undine's tone, and Miss Graham was touched.

"My dear little girl," she said, "I am sure there are many ways in which you can make yourself useful if you stay with us. You will soon learn to be a great help to Mrs. Graham, and there will be many little things you can do for me as well."

Marjorie gave her aunt a grateful glance, and Undine looked relieved.