"That's a good idea," said Miss Graham approvingly, "and suppose you take Undine with you? She has been indoors all day; the fresh air will do her good."
"All right," assented Marjorie, well pleased. "Come along, Undine," she added, rising; "we'll have time for a good gallop before supper."
Undine hesitated.
"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.