Marjorie slipped an arm round her. "I didn't know you cared so much," she said. "You'll have Aunt Jessie, and you're so fond of her."
"I shall miss you dreadfully," whispered Undine tremulously. "You've been so good to me, and—and you were the first one to believe in me. All the rest thought I was telling stories, even Miss Jessie."
"I couldn't help believing you," said Marjorie, laughing. "When you looked at me with those big eyes of yours, and told me all those strange things, I felt sure they were true, though it was the queerest story I had ever heard. I think I should have to believe every word you ever told me."
Undine smiled.
"I don't think your uncle believes it all even yet," she said. "He looks at me so queerly sometimes that it makes me uncomfortable. I wish you were not going away with him."
"Oh, he is very kind," said Marjorie, loyally. "It's so good of him to be willing to take me to New York, and send me to school for the whole winter. I'm sorry you don't like him, Undine."
"Well, he may be kind, but he isn't nearly as nice as your father and mother. How do you know you are going to like New York?"
"Oh, I am sure I shall like it, as soon as I get used to things there." Marjorie spoke with forced cheerfulness and choked down a rising lump in her throat. "You see, it isn't like going to live among strangers," she went on, as much for the sake of reassuring herself as her friend. "I shall be with my own uncle and aunt, and then there will be Elsie."
"Perhaps you won't like Elsie; you've never seen her."
"Why, of course I shall like her. She's my own cousin, and only three months older than I am. I have always thought that having a cousin was the next best thing to having a sister."