"That's only because they're afraid you will worry and make yourself ill," Marjorie explained. "You remember what a dreadful headache you had the day you heard Jim singing 'Mandalay.' They're really tremendously interested." "Are they?" said Undine, looking pleased. "I was afraid they thought me silly. At first I know they thought I was a fraud, and I'm sure I don't blame them. How could any one believe such a queer story? And yet it's all true, every word." "They believe it now, at any rate," said Marjorie, "and they're just as much interested as I am. Mother says she can't help worrying when she thinks of your friends, and how they may be grieving for you." "Miss Brent said she didn't believe I had any friends or they would have come to look for me," said Undine sadly. "But you must have belonged to somebody," persisted Marjorie, "and it isn't likely all your family were killed in the earthquake, even if some of them were. Then you do remember some things--there was the person who sang 'Mandalay.'" "But I can't remember who it was; I only know there was somebody who used to sing it. I almost remembered for a minute that day, but it was gone in a flash, and it has never come back since." "Well, don't let's talk any more about worrying things this glorious afternoon," broke in Marjorie, noticing the troubled sound in her friend's voice. "Let's have a good gallop, and forget everything else. Come along, Roland." Away flew Roland, admonished by a gentle tap from his mistress, and he was followed closely by Undine's pony. The next half hour was one of unalloyed enjoyment to both girls. The quick motion, the bright sunshine, the keen air, all conspired to banish thoughts of care or perplexity from Undine's mind, and to bring the bright color into her cheeks. Marjorie, glancing over her shoulder at her friend, suddenly realized what a very pretty girl Undine was. Even the khaki skirt and the sombrero, counterparts of Marjorie's own, could not detract from her beauty, and she sat on her pony with as much grace as any lady in the land. "There! wasn't that great?" exclaimed Marjorie, drawing Roland in at last, and turning to her friend, with sparkling eyes. "I don't believe you ever had a finer gallop than that in your life." "I don't believe I ever did," agreed Undine, straightening her sombrero, and pushing back the tumbled hair from her eyes. "Must we go back now?" "I'm afraid so. Father and Mother don't like to have me stay out after sunset. Look at the mountains; they seem just as near as ever, don't they? And yet we've been riding straight away from them all the time." "Isn't it still?" whispered Undine, with a deep breath. "I feel as if I ought to whisper, though I don't know why. I don't suppose there's another living soul within miles of us, and yet I'm not the least bit afraid."