"My aunt is like that," said Marjorie, with shining eyes. "She is a great invalid, and suffers very much most of the time, but she never complains, and is always interested in everything we do. Is your uncle a surgeon?"
"Yes," said Beverly, rather surprised by the abruptness of the question; "he is a very fine surgeon, I believe. Why do you want to know? Aren't you satisfied with the way your wrist is bandaged?"
"Oh, it isn't that," said Marjorie, blushing; "it was only something I was thinking of that made me ask the question. This is our apartment; now I can take the bottle, and not bother you any more. Oh, there's a letter in the box; perhaps it's for me!" And forgetting everything else in her eagerness for home news, Marjorie sprang forward to possess herself of the contents of the letter-box.
"It is for me!" she cried joyfully, glancing at the postmark. "It's from Undine; the first one I've had from her."
"Undine," repeated Beverly, his eyes beginning to twinkle; "I had no idea you counted water sprites among your acquaintances."
"She isn't a water sprite," laughed Marjorie. "She's just a girl like anybody else. We call her Undine because nobody knows what her real name is. It's a very strange story indeed. She was found under some ruins in the streets of San Francisco right after the earthquake, and we think a stone or something must have fallen on her head, for she was unconscious for a long time, and now she can't remember anything that happened before the earthquake, not even her own name. She isn't crazy, or anything like that, but she has simply forgotten everything. Did you ever hear of a case like that before?"
"I think I have read of such cases, but I imagine they are rather rare. It is very interesting, but if you don't mind, Miss Marjorie, please don't mention it to my mother. Any mention of the San Francisco earthquake is very painful to her. My little sister was killed there."
"No, indeed I won't," promised Marjorie, "but how very sad about your sister. Would you mind telling me how it happened? Don't talk about it, though, if you would rather not."
"I don't mind in the least," said Beverly, "but it was such a frightful shock to my mother that we don't like to have her dwell on it any any more than can be helped. My sister Barbara was in San Francisco with my aunt at the time of the earthquake. She had been very ill with scarlet fever in the winter, and the doctor had ordered a change for her. My aunt was going to California for a few weeks, and offered to take Barbara with her. Mother couldn't leave home, for she was taking care of my grandmother, who was ill at the time, and I was away at school. So it ended in my aunt and Barbara going by themselves. My aunt intended taking a maid, but the one she had engaged disappointed her at the last moment, and as all the railroad accommodations had been secured, she decided to start, and trust to finding a suitable maid in San Francisco, which was to be their first stopping place. They reached San Francisco, and my aunt wrote my mother that she had engaged a very satisfactory girl, and two days later came the earthquake."
Beverly paused abruptly, and Marjorie, her face full of sympathy, laid a kind little hand on his arm.