visitor's eyes.

"But I don't understand," she said doubtfully; "I never heard of a person's not knowing her own name. Haven't you any relatives?"

"I suppose I had once, but I can't remember them. The first thing I remember is waking up in a hospital. It was just after the earthquake in San Francisco, and they told me I was found in the street under some ruins. They thought a stone or something must have fallen on my head, and that was what made me forget everything. Nobody knew whom I belonged to, and I had only a nightgown on when I was found, so they couldn't trace me by my clothes. At first the doctors thought I would remember soon, and they used to ask me questions, but I never could answer any of them. They kept me at the hospital a long time, but I was always frightened because I couldn't remember anything. At last when I was strong again, and nobody came to look for me, they said they couldn't keep me there any longer. They sent me to the 'Home For The Friendless in Oakland,' but I had only been there a week when Miss Brent came to look for a girl to run errands, and carry home parcels. They told her about me, and she said she would take me, because I might have rich friends, who would come for me, and pay her well for taking care of me. So I went to live with her, and she put an advertisement about me in the newspapers. For a long time I kept hoping some one would come for me, but nobody ever did. Miss Brent was a dressmaker, and she had a lot of girls working for her, but I didn't like any of them, they were so rough, and they used to laugh at me, and call me 'loony.' Miss Brent called me Sally, but I know that isn't my real name. I got so tired running errands, and carrying the heavy boxes home made my back ache. I don't think I could have stood it if it hadn't been for Mr. Jackson. He boarded with Miss Brent, and lived in a little room on the top floor. He was very old, and nobody paid much attention to him, but I was sorry for him, and I used to carry up his meals, and he talked to me so kindly. He never made fun of me, because I couldn't remember, but he lent me books to read, and asked me questions like the doctors at the hospital. It's very queer, but I could always remember how to read. I can write, too, and I can even remember things in history, but I can't remember a single thing about myself. Mr. Jackson said he was sure my memory would come back some day, and then I would be able to find my friends. He died last winter, and after that it was dreadful. Miss Brent was always busy and cross, and the girls were worse than ever. A month ago Miss Brent told us she was going to be married, and give up the business, and that all the girls would have to leave. Most of them didn't mind, because they had homes, but Miss Brent said she didn't know what in the world to do with me. She didn't think any one would take me, because I wasn't strong enough to do hard work, and she was afraid I was too old to go back to the 'Home For The Friendless.'

"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 nobody 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 nobody, 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