"I never talk of my little girl to strangers--it is all too sacred for that--but you are not a stranger any more. I have loved you dearly ever since we stood together at my Barbara's grave, and you showed me by your silent sympathy how well you understood." Marjorie could not speak, but she took her friend's hand, and stroked it softly, while Mrs. Randolph went on, calmly, though with a quiver in her voice: "I used to try to make the children's birthdays as happy as possible; I thought they would be pleasant memories for them when they were older. Even the year after my husband died, when my heart was very sad, I wanted them to have a merry time. Little children's lives should never be saddened. I think you would have loved my little girl, Marjorie; she was very sweet." "I know I should," said Marjorie, with a sob, that was half hysterical. "I am afraid she was a sad rogue sometimes," said Mrs. Randolph, smiling; "Beverly and I often laugh even now over the memory of some of her pranks. I want him to remember all the bright, pleasant things, and not dwell too much on the sadness." "Mammy told me about some of Barbara's pranks," said Marjorie, "she showed me her photograph, too." Mrs. Randolph unfastened a small gold locket from a chain she always wore about her neck, and opened it. Inside was the miniature of a merry-faced girl of twelve--the same face that had looked at Marjorie from the photograph in Mammy's cabin. "That was taken only a few weeks before my little girl went away," she said. "She was just twelve then. I suppose she would look older now, but I can never think of Babs as growing up." Then Marjorie had an inspiration. How it came she never knew, but she had yielded to it before giving herself time to think. "That picture reminds me of some one I know," she said, and the moment the words were out she would have given everything she possessed to have left them unsaid. "Who is it?" Mrs. Randolph asked, her eyes still resting lovingly on the face of the miniature. "A girl who has been at my home since last summer," said Marjorie, who was beginning to feel cold and sick with excitement and apprehension, but was determined to go on now that she had begun. "She came to the ranch one day all by herself. She had walked all the way from the railroad. It was a very strange case; she had had an accident, and forgotten everything about herself, even her own name." "Forgotten her name!" said Mrs. Randolph, incredulously. "What a curious thing--are you sure her story was true?" "Oh, yes, quite sure. She was such a dear girl, we couldn't doubt her. Besides Father wrote to the people she had lived with since her accident, and they said everything Undine had told us was true. We called her Undine because it was pretty, and we didn't know her real name." "Poor child," said Mrs. Randolph, closing the miniature as she spoke. "Has she never remembered anything about herself since?"