Then Marjorie had an inspiration. How it came she never knew, but she had yielded to it before giving herself time to think.
"That picture reminds me of some one I know," she said, and the moment the words were out she would have given everything she possessed to have left them unsaid.
"Who is it?" Mrs. Randolph asked, her eyes still resting lovingly on the face of the miniature.
"A girl who has been at my home since last summer," said Marjorie, who was beginning to feel cold and sick with excitement and apprehension, but was determined to go on now that she had begun. "She came to the ranch one day all by herself. She had walked all the way from the railroad. It was a very strange case; she had had an accident, and forgotten everything about herself, even her own name."
"Forgotten her name!" said Mrs. Randolph, incredulously. "What a curious thing—are you sure her story was true?"
"Oh, yes, quite sure. She was such a dear girl, we couldn't doubt her. Besides Father wrote to the people she had lived with since her accident, and they said everything Undine had told us was true. We called her Undine because it was pretty, and we didn't know her real name."
"Poor child," said Mrs. Randolph, closing the miniature as she spoke. "Has she never remembered anything about herself since?"
"She hadn't a week ago," said Marjorie, wondering how her shaking lips formed the words, "but perhaps she may some time. Oh, Mrs. Randolph, suppose she should remember, and it should turn out that she had relatives—brothers and sisters, and—and perhaps a mother, who had been mourning her as dead! Can you think how her mother would feel? Can you even imagine it, Mrs. Randolph?"
"I think such joy would be more than any mother could bear," said Mrs. Randolph, softly. "But such strange, romantic things don't often happen in this world, Marjorie dear. The poor child's mother is probably dead, or she would have found her long ago. How did the accident happen?"
Marjorie gave a great gasp.