"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 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.