The Girl from Arizona Part 3

At that moment the afternoon stillness was broken by a sound of distant hoof-beats, and a clear tenor voice singing:

"'On the road to Mandalay, Where the old flotilla lay.'"

"It's Jim coming with the mail," cried Marjorie joyfully; "I should know his voice anywhere, and that's his favorite song. Oh, I wonder if there will be an answer to Father's letter to Miss Brent. What's the matter, Undine?"

For Undine, who was still standing by Miss Graham's chair, had suddenly grown pale, and a strange, startled expression had come into her face.

"Who's Jim?" she demanded sharply.

"Only one of Father's men. He used to be a cow-puncher in Texas. I think you must have seen him; he's about the ranch a good deal."

The hoof-beats were drawing nearer, and the rider had begun another verse of his song.

"'Er petticoat was yaller, An' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supy Yawler, Jes' the same as Thebaw's queen.'"

"I know that song," cried Undine excitedly, clasping and unclasping her hands, and she began reciting in a dreamy, far-away voice:

"'An' I see 'er first a smokin'

Of a whackin' big sheroot, An' wastin' Christian kisses On a 'eathen idol's foot.'

"Somebody used to sing it. Who was it? Oh, tell me quick; I must remember, I must, I must!"

She turned imploringly to Miss Graham and Marjorie, but the two blank, puzzled faces gave her no help, and with a low cry, the poor child covered her face with her hands, and began to sob. Marjorie's kind arms were round her friend in a moment, but it was no easy task to stem the torrent of Undine's grief.

"Oh, help me to remember, please, please do help me!" she wailed, between hysterical sobs and gasps. "I almost remembered, and now it's all gone again. Oh, what shall I do--what shall I do?"

"You'll remember it all some time, dear, I know you will," soothed Marjorie, crying herself from pure sympathy. "Do try not to mind quite so much, Undine. I know it must be terrible, but we're all so sorry for you, and we'll try to make you happy, indeed we will."

By this time horse and rider had reached the ranch house, and Jim Hathaway, a freckled, red-haired youth, had sprung to the ground, and was regarding the scene in undisguised astonishment.

"Have you brought us any letters to-day, Jim?" Miss Graham asked, by way of relieving the situation.

"Yes'm; there's two for Mr. Graham, and some newspapers, and a magazine."

"Ask him where he learned that song," whispered Undine to Marjorie. She was still trembling, and seemed very much agitated.

"Where did you learn that song you were singing just now, Jim?" Marjorie inquired, eagerly; "the one about the 'Road to Mandalay,' you know?"

Jim looked rather vague.

"Blessed if I remember," he said. "I picked it up somewhere, but I couldn't rightly say where it was."

"Won't you please try to remember?" said Undine, lifting her tear-stained face from Marjorie's shoulder. "I want very much to know. I am trying to remember something about it, and if you could tell me where you learned it it might help me."

Jim stared at her rather stupidly; then his face brightened.

"I guess I do remember, now I come to think of it," he said slowly. "It was in Texas. There was an English chap there, who was forever singing it. I picked it up from him. There were a lot of verses to it but I don't know 'em all."

Undine shook her head hopelessly.

"Thank you," she said; "I don't believe I was ever in Texas." And without another word, she turned and went into the house.

It was more than an hour later when Mrs. Graham knocked softly at the door of the little room which had been given to the strange guest. She waited a moment, and then, receiving no answer, turned the handle and went in. Undine was lying on the bed, her face buried in the pillow. She was so still that Mrs. Graham thought she must be asleep, and was turning away again when there was a slight movement on the bed, and with a long sigh, the girl lifted her head.

At sight of her hostess, Undine sprang to her feet, and began pus.h.i.+ng the tumbled hair back from her eyes. She was very white, and there was a drawn, suffering look on her face, which went to Mrs. Graham's motherly heart.

"I beg your pardon," said Undine, humbly. "I'm afraid you must all think me very silly and troublesome. I didn't mean to make a fuss, but when I heard that boy singing 'Mandalay' it seemed for just a minute as if I were going to remember something, and then it was all gone again. I thought that perhaps if I lay very still with my eyes shut tight, and thought as hard as I could, it might come again, but it didn't."

"Sit down, dear," said Mrs. Graham, kindly, and seating herself on the edge of the bed, she drew Undine down beside her. "Does your head ache?"

"It aches dreadfully," confessed Undine, pressing her hand to her forehead. "It always does when I try very hard to remember."

"I was afraid so. It isn't good for you to try to remember in this way; it won't help things at all, and may make them much worse. You must promise me not to try to think so hard again. When your memory comes back it will come naturally, and without any forcing. Now I want to talk to you about something quite different. Mr. Graham has had a letter from the 'Home For The Friendless' at Oakland, and another from your friend Miss Brent, or Mrs. Rogers, as I believe she is now."

"What did they say?" inquired Undine, languidly. She seemed too much exhausted to take much interest in letters.

"Mrs. Rogers spoke kindly of you, and seemed pleased to know where you are. Her sister had telegraphed her of your disappearance. She said she hoped you would find a good home, for she was afraid nothing would induce Mrs. Hicks to take you back. They remembered you at the 'Home,'

too, and are willing to have you there again if we will pay your expenses back to California."

"But I don't want to go back there," protested Undine, lifting her head, and speaking more like her old self. "Oh, Mrs. Graham, must I go? Can't I stay here? I'll do anything you want me to, and I can work hard, just wait and see if I can't."

Mrs. Graham smiled as she glanced at the soft little hands, which did not look as though their owner were capable of much hard work.

"That is just what we have been talking about," she said. "I should be glad of a little extra help in the house; Juanita isn't as young as she once was, and I want to give Marjorie a little more time for study. So if you think you would really care to stay with us, and are willing to work for small wages--"

"Wages!" cried Undine indignantly; "I don't want any money; I only want to stay with you, and work for my board. You're all so kind, and ... and I think you must be more like the people I used to live with than Miss Brent and Mrs. Hicks were. Oh, if I could only remember!"

"There, there, we won't talk any more about remembering just now,"

interrupted Mrs. Graham cheerfully. "You shall stay with us, at least for the present, and who knows what may happen in the future. Now lie down again, and try to take a nap before supper. You look very tired, and a good sleep will do your head more good than anything else." And yielding to a sudden impulse, Mrs. Graham stooped and kissed the flushed face on the pillow, almost as tenderly as if this strange, friendless little waif had been her own Marjorie.

CHAPTER IV

A VISITOR FROM THE EAST

"OF all the different kinds of housework, I think pickling is the most disagreeable!"

Marjorie made this remark as she came into her aunt's room one glorious October afternoon. Miss Graham's room was the prettiest and most luxurious in the ranch house. Every comfort which limited income and inaccessible surroundings could afford had been procured for the invalid, and to Marjorie, after a hard day's work of helping her mother and Juanita in the yearly pickling, it seemed a very haven of rest and comfort. Miss Graham herself, in a pretty pink wrapper, was lying on the sofa, while Undine read aloud to her. She was a very different Undine from the pale, timid girl of two months before. The thin cheeks had filled out wonderfully, and the big brown eyes had almost entirely lost their expression of frightened bewilderment, for Undine had found her place in the household and was happy. I have my doubts as to whether Undine would have proved of great use in the kitchen, her knowledge of any kind of housework being decidedly limited, but before she had been in her new home a fortnight Miss Graham was taken ill. It was not a serious illness, though a tedious and painful one, and almost from the first moment Undine had established herself as nurse. Her devotion was touching; it was with difficulty that she could be persuaded to leave the invalid's bedside even for the necessary rest and exercise, and she would gladly have worked night and day in the service of gentle Miss Graham, who almost unconsciously grew to love the girl, and to depend upon her more than she would have believed possible in so short a time.

Now Miss Graham was better, and the task of nursing was almost at an end, but she was still weak, and Mr. and Mrs. Graham were thankful for the willing service of the girl whom they had taken into their home on account of her friendless condition and her big honest brown eyes.

"You don't know what you two people have been spared to-day," continued Marjorie, throwing herself wearily into the rocking-chair. "Thank goodness, they're all done, and we shall have pickles enough to last another year."

"We haven't been spared the smell," said Miss Graham, laughing. "I really felt at one time to-day that I would gladly forego pickles for the rest of my life."

"What have you been reading?" Marjorie inquired, with a glance at the book Undine had put down on her entrance.