"I believe you love riding as much as I do," said Marjorie, sympathetically. "I wonder where you learned to ride. I shall never forget how astonished Father and I were that first day, when we made you get on a pony just for fun, and you took the reins, and started off as if you had been accustomed to riding every day of your life."
There was a trace of the old shadow in Undine's face as she answered:
"It's all very strange, and I can't explain it, but it seemed quite natural, and as if I had done it often before. Even when the pony jumped, and your father thought I would be frightened, I wasn't. I seemed to know just what to do, though I couldn't tell how I knew."
"Perhaps you lived on a ranch once," Marjorie suggested. "That would explain it."
Undine shook her head.
"I don't think so," she said, "for when I first came here it was all quite strange, and though I'm not a bit afraid of horses, I'm horribly afraid of cows. A girl who had lived long on a ranch couldn't be afraid of cows, could she?"
Marjorie assented, and the two girls rode on in silence for several minutes. Then Undine spoke again.
"There's another curious thing that I haven't told you. That book I'm reading to your aunt—'Lorna Doone,' you know—I'm sure I've read it before. I know what is going to happen in every chapter."
Marjorie looked much interested.
"Have you told Aunt Jessie about it?" she asked.