"Are you sure you can spare me?" she asked, with an anxious glance at the pale face on the pillow. "Quite sure, dear. I shall not need anything, and even if I should Mrs. Graham and Juanita are both within call. So run along, you conscientious little nurse, and enjoy yourself for the rest of the afternoon." Undine blushed with pleasure at the compliment, and five minutes later she and Marjorie were on their way to the stables. It was one of those glorious autumn days, when the air is like a tonic, and every object stands out with almost startling clearness. "The mountains look so near to-day, it seems almost as if we might ride to them, doesn't it?" remarked Undine, as the two girls trotted out of the ranch gates on their ponies; Undine sitting as straight, and riding with almost as much ease as Marjorie herself. "They are nearly a hundred miles away," said Marjorie, with a glance in the direction of the great snow-tipped mountains, which certainly did look very near in that wonderful atmosphere. "We could go there, though, if we had an automobile. What wonderful things automobiles must be." "I suppose they are--there were plenty of them in California--but nothing could be half as nice as a gallop in this wonderful air. A pony like this is worth all the automobiles in San Francisco." And Undine bestowed an affectionate pat on the neck of the pretty brown horse she was riding. "I believe you love riding as much as I do," said Marjorie, sympathetically. "I wonder where you learned to ride. I shall never forget how astonished Father and I were that first day, when we made you get on a pony just for fun, and you took the reins, and started off as if you had been accustomed to riding every day of your life." There was a trace of the old shadow in Undine's face as she answered: "It's all very strange, and I can't explain it, but it seemed quite natural, and as if I had done it often before. Even when the pony jumped, and your father thought I would be frightened, I wasn't. I seemed to know just what to do, though I couldn't tell how I knew." "Perhaps you lived on a ranch once," Marjorie suggested. "That would explain it." Undine shook her head. "I don't think so," she said, "for when I first came here it was all quite strange, and though I'm not a bit afraid of horses, I'm horribly afraid of cows. A girl who had lived long on a ranch couldn't be afraid of cows, could she?" Marjorie assented, and the two girls rode on in silence for several minutes. Then Undine spoke again. "There's another curious thing that I haven't told you. That book I'm reading to your aunt--'Lorna Doone,' you know--I'm sure I've read it before. I know what is going to happen in every chapter." Marjorie looked much interested. "Have you told Aunt Jessie about it?" she asked. "No, I was afraid it might bother her. I don't think she or your mother like to have me talk about the things I remember."