"'Undine,'" repeated Beverly, stupidly, "who is Undine? That is the picture of my sister Barbara."
"It's Undine," repeated Marjorie, with obstinate persistence; "it's exactly like her; I would know her anywhere."
"But who is Undine? I never even heard of her?"
"Yes, you did; I told you about her once, and you said I mustn't mention her to your mother, because she was hurt in the earthquake. We called her Undine, because she couldn't remember her real name, or anything that happened to her before the earthquake. That's her photograph, Beverly, I tell you it is—it is!"
Beverly had grown very pale, but he made a great effort at self-control.
"Don't talk nonsense, Marjorie," he said, almost angrily; "I tell you that is my sister's photograph. I can show you another just like it at home."
"Beverly," cried Marjorie, clasping her hands, and speaking in a tone of sudden conviction, "I am not talking nonsense. That is the picture of the girl who has been at the ranch since last August. She was found in the street just after the earthquake, half buried under some ruins. She was unconscious, and they took her to a hospital. She has never been able to remember anything about herself since. Your sister was in the earthquake, too; you think she was killed, but perhaps—oh, Beverly dear, let us go home quick, and tell your uncle all about it."
Mrs. Randolph was in the library reading. Twice she had put down her book, and gone to the window to look out. It was growing dark, and had begun to snow.
"How late they are," she said to herself, with an anxious glance at the clock. "They ought to be back by this time, but I suppose they have stayed listening to Mammy's stories, and forgotten the time."
She sat down again by the fire, and took up her book. But she was feeling restless and nervous that afternoon, though she could not have told why, and after reading a page, she closed the book again.