The Girl from Arizona Part 5

Marjorie nodded; she was trying to think of some way of helping the stranger out of his difficulty. But it was finally he himself who put into words the very suggestion she was going to make.

"I wonder if by any chance you young ladies happen to be going as far as the ranch," he said, with a rather curious glance at the two figures, sitting astride their ponies.

"We're going straight there now," said Marjorie, eagerly, "and if you don't mind waiting, I'll ask Father to send a horse for you."

"You are very kind, but do you think he could possibly send a wagon as well? I am not much of a horseman."

This certainly was a "tenderfoot," and no mistake, but Marjorie was too polite to laugh.

"All right," she said, "I'll see about it, but it will take longer to wait for a team to be hitched up."

"That can't be helped. I'm afraid I'm not equal to another five miles on foot. Do you know Mr. Graham?"

Marjorie laughed.

"Of course I do," she said in her frank, friendly way; "he's my father."

"Your father!" repeated the gentleman, his face lighting up; "why, you don't mean to tell me you are little Marjorie?"

"I'm Marjorie Graham, but I'm not very little. I'm five feet, three, and I was fourteen last March."

"Well, you were about two feet, three when I last saw you," said the gentleman, smiling; "so you must forgive me for not recognizing you at once. Have you ever heard of your uncle Henry Carleton?"

With a joyous exclamation, impulsive Marjorie sprang from her pony and leaving the faithful Roland to his own devices, rushed to her uncle's side, holding out both hands.

"Of course I have!" she cried, lifting her radiant face for the expected kiss. "Oh, Uncle Henry, I'm so glad you've come to see us at last; Mother will be so happy."

Although somewhat surprised by the warmth of this greeting, Mr. Carleton was not at all displeased. Indeed, he was smiling very pleasantly by the time he had given his niece the kiss she was evidently expecting, and his face softened as he regarded her more attentively.

"I ought to have known you, Marjorie," he said, "for you are very like your mother."

Marjorie flushed with pleasure.

"I'm glad," she said; "I'd rather look like Mother than any one else. Is Elsie with you?"

"Elsie? You know about my little girl, too, then?"

"Oh, yes, indeed; I know she is just about my age. Mother has a photograph of her, taken when she was a baby, and I've always wished I could see her. Having a cousin of one's own age must be almost as good as having a sister. Oh, I do hope she's coming to the ranch!"

Mr. Carleton shook his head.

"Elsie and her mother were with me, but they have gone back to New York.

We have been through the Canadian Rockies and the Yosemite together, and yesterday we stopped at the Grand Canyon. Your aunt and cousin have gone on in the train, but I thought I would like a few days with your mother, so I got off at the nearest station to the ranch, and was driving out. I suppose I should have written, but I thought I would rather enjoy giving your mother a surprise. I hope I sha'n't be in the way."

"No, indeed, you won't," declared Marjorie heartily. "Mother and Father will be delighted, and so will Aunt Jessie. We so seldom have visitors, and it's such a treat, but I'm dreadfully sorry Aunt Julia and Elsie aren't coming, too. What a lucky girl Elsie is to have seen all those wonderful places! Father is going to take Mother and me to the Canyon some day when he can afford it. But I was so glad to see you that I forgot to introduce my friend. Undine, this is my uncle, Mr. Carleton.

"Uncle Henry, this is my friend, Miss Undine--we don't know her other name."

Undine--who had been watching proceedings with interest--smiled shyly, and held out her hand. She had also dismounted from her pony, and was holding him by the bridle.

"Undine," repeated Mr. Carleton, looking amused, as he took the girl's hand, and regarded her curiously; "that is a rather unusual name, isn't it?"

Undine blushed, and looked embarra.s.sed, and Marjorie hastened to explain.

"It isn't her real name, but she didn't like being called Sally, so we thought we would call her Undine until she remembers what her name is.

It's a very interesting story, Uncle Henry, but I won't stop to tell it now, for it's getting late, and I must hurry home as fast as I can, and have Father send a team for you. I wish you could ride my pony; I wouldn't mind walking the five miles a bit."

"That's a nice little girl of Susie's," Mr. Carleton remarked to himself, as the ponies and their riders disappeared in a cloud of dust.

"She has her mother's eyes and friendly ways, but--well, perhaps it was just as well I couldn't persuade Julia to stop over at the ranch. I doubt if Marjorie and Elsie would hit it off very well together."

CHAPTER V

UNCLE HENRY'S PROPOSITION

MR. CARLETON received a hearty welcome at the ranch. Mr. and Mrs. Graham were not the sort of people to remember old grievances; Mrs. Graham was honestly glad to see her brother, and they were both quite willing to let bygones be bygones. So the visitor found the meeting with his sister and her husband a much less embarra.s.sing one than he had expected, and the days at the ranch pa.s.sed so pleasantly that he was easily persuaded to prolong his stay from a day or two to a week, and then to a fortnight. He and his sister had more than one long confidential talk, and although no word of complaint was uttered, Mr. Carleton was clever enough to read between the lines, and it was after one of these talks that he wrote a letter to his wife in New York, for an answer to which he was anxiously waiting.

It was on an afternoon in the second week of his visit that Mr. Carleton sauntered out on to the porch, to find Marjorie alone, and busily engaged in tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a hat.

"Where are all the others?" he inquired, throwing himself rather wearily into the rocker by her side. "I've been writing letters all the afternoon, and haven't heard a sound in the house."

"They are all out," said Marjorie. "Father wanted Mother to see some colts he is thinking of buying, and Aunt Jessie has gone with them, for the sake of the drive. Undine has gone, too."

"And how does it happen that you were left behind, like Cinderella.

Wasn't there room in the wagon?"

"Oh, I could have squeezed in, or else ridden Roland, but I was too busy. I'm making a new hat, and that's always a very absorbing occupation. Don't you think it's going to be pretty?" And Marjorie held up the plain straw hat, trimmed with blue ribbon, for her uncle's inspection.

"I have no doubt it will be most becoming," said Mr. Carleton, smiling, "but have you done it all yourself?"

"Of course I have. I've trimmed all my hats since I was twelve. I make my s.h.i.+rt-waists, too, all but the cutting out; Mother does that. Doesn't Elsie make her own things?"

"No, I'm afraid she doesn't; sewing isn't exactly in Elsie's line."

"Perhaps she likes other kinds of work better," said Marjorie, cheerfully. "I suppose Aunt Julia is disappointed, though. Mother says she would be very sorry if I didn't like to sew; she thinks every girl should learn to make her own clothes."

"I'm afraid your aunt isn't any more fond of sewing than Elsie is," said Mr. Carleton, with a rather peculiar smile.

Marjorie secretly wondered who made Elsie's dresses, and who attended to the household mending, but fearing it might be impolite to ask, changed the subject by saying:

"Undine could scarcely sew at all when she came, but Aunt Jessie has been teaching her, and she has improved very much. Don't you think it's tremendously interesting about Undine, Uncle Henry?"

"It is certainly a most unusual case," admitted Mr. Carleton. "I was at first inclined to believe that Miss Undine was gifted with a vivid imagination, and was imposing on you all, but your father and mother believe her story."

"Oh, yes, indeed, we all believe it," cried Marjorie, eagerly. "We know it's true, because Father wrote to the dressmaker where Undine worked for two years, and she said everything was just as Undine had told us."