"It is very interesting to meet you. I have often heard papa speak of you and your mother and father." "Why, of course you have," laughed Marjorie, wondering in her simple way whether all New York girls of fifteen were as "grown up" as Elsie. "I don't believe though that you have thought half as much about me as I have about you. You see, it's different in Arizona. There aren't very many people, and they all live a long way from each other. Ever since I can remember I have longed for a girl friend. But with you it must be very different, going to school and living in a big city. I suppose you have lots of friends." "Oh, yes, I have a good many," said Elsie, with her little society air. "I am not very fond of them all, though; some girls are so stupid." "I hope you will like me," said Marjorie, a little wistfully. "We ought to be even more than friends because we are cousins, and I have always thought that a cousin must be the next best thing to a sister. Don't you often long for a sister?" "Why no, I don't," Elsie admitted. "Indeed, I am not sure that I should care for one at all. I think being an only child is very pleasant, though of course having an older brother would have its advantages. He would introduce one to his friends and bring them to the house. Are you fond of boys?" "Oh, yes, I like them very well, but I have never known many. In fact, I haven't known many people of any kind except Indians and Mexicans." "Indians and Mexicans!" repeated Elsie in a tone of dismay. "How perfectly awful! You don't mean that you make friends of those dreadful people we saw on the train coming home from California, do you?" "They are not all dreadful creatures," said Marjorie, flushing. "They are not quite like white people, of course, but some of them are very good. I know a Mexican boy who is just as bright and clever as he can be. His father is going to send him to college next year. Then there is Juanita; she has lived with us for years, and we are all very fond of her." "Oh, I didn't know you were talking about servants," said Elsie. "I thought you meant friends. Hadn't you any real friends?" "Not the kind of friends you mean. I had Father and Mother and Aunt Jessie, but until last August when Undine came, I had never spoken to a white girl of my own age." "Undine, what a queer name. Is she a Mexican or an Indian?" "She isn't either," said Marjorie, laughing, "and Undine isn't her real name. We only call her that because we don't know what her name is. It's a very interesting story, and I'll tell you all about it, but here comes my trunk, and I suppose I had better unpack and change my dress before dinner."