The Girl from Arizona Part 4

"'Lorna Doone.' We have had a delightful afternoon. It is such a charming story, and Undine reads aloud remarkably well."

Marjorie glanced out of the window, at the brilliant autumn suns.h.i.+ne.

"I think I'll go for a ride, to get the smell of the pickles out of my nostrils," she said. "Mother says she won't need me any more to-day."

"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," a.s.sented 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.

"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 a.s.sented, 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.

"No, I was afraid it might bother her. I don't think she or your mother like to have me talk about the things I remember."

"That's only because they're afraid you will worry and make yourself ill," Marjorie explained. "You remember what a dreadful headache you had the day you heard Jim singing 'Mandalay.' They're really tremendously interested."

"Are they?" said Undine, looking pleased. "I was afraid they thought me silly. At first I know they thought I was a fraud, and I'm sure I don't blame them. How could any one believe such a queer story? And yet it's all true, every word."

"They believe it now, at any rate," said Marjorie, "and they're just as much interested as I am. Mother says she can't help worrying when she thinks of your friends, and how they may be grieving for you."

"Miss Brent said she didn't believe I had any friends or they would have come to look for me," said Undine sadly.

"But you must have belonged to somebody," persisted Marjorie, "and it isn't likely all your family were killed in the earthquake, even if some of them were. Then you do remember some things--there was the person who sang 'Mandalay.'"

"But I can't remember who it was; I only know there was somebody who used to sing it. I almost remembered for a minute that day, but it was gone in a flash, and it has never come back since."

"Well, don't let's talk any more about worrying things this glorious afternoon," broke in Marjorie, noticing the troubled sound in her friend's voice. "Let's have a good gallop, and forget everything else.

Come along, Roland."

Away flew Roland, admonished by a gentle tap from his mistress, and he was followed closely by Undine's pony. The next half hour was one of unalloyed enjoyment to both girls. The quick motion, the bright suns.h.i.+ne, the keen air, all conspired to banish thoughts of care or perplexity from Undine's mind, and to bring the bright color into her cheeks. Marjorie, glancing over her shoulder at her friend, suddenly realized what a very pretty girl Undine was. Even the khaki skirt and the sombrero, counterparts of Marjorie's own, could not detract from her beauty, and she sat on her pony with as much grace as any lady in the land.

"There! wasn't that great?" exclaimed Marjorie, drawing Roland in at last, and turning to her friend, with sparkling eyes. "I don't believe you ever had a finer gallop than that in your life."

"I don't believe I ever did," agreed Undine, straightening her sombrero, and pus.h.i.+ng back the tumbled hair from her eyes. "Must we go back now?"

"I'm afraid so. Father and Mother don't like to have me stay out after sunset. Look at the mountains; they seem just as near as ever, don't they? And yet we've been riding straight away from them all the time."

"Isn't it still?" whispered Undine, with a deep breath. "I feel as if I ought to whisper, though I don't know why. I don't suppose there's another living soul within miles of us, and yet I'm not the least bit afraid."

"There is, though," exclaimed Marjorie, in sudden astonishment. "Look at that man. Where can he be going?" And she pointed with her whip-handle to a solitary figure, carrying a suit-case, which was slowly advancing in their direction. "He isn't an Indian or a Mexican, either," she added eagerly; "he's a white man, and he must be on his way to the ranch.

n.o.body who isn't coming to the ranch ever takes this road."

"Perhaps he's a tramp," suggested Undine nervously. "We'd better hurry home."

But Marjorie scorned the suggestion.

"Nonsense," she said indignantly. "The idea of wanting to run away!

Besides, we can't; he's making signs to us to wait for him. He wants to speak to us."

Undine did not feel at all sure of the wisdom of this proceeding, but there seemed nothing else to do, and in a few moments the stranger, who had quickened his pace at sight of the two girls, was within speaking distance. He was plentifully besprinkled with dust, and was looking decidedly warm and tired, but his appearance and manner were those of a gentleman.

"Excuse me for detaining you," he said, apologetically, "but can you tell me how far I am from Mr. Donald Graham's ranch?"

"I thought you must be coming to the ranch," said Marjorie, with a friendly smile; "it's about five miles from here."

"Five miles," repeated the stranger in a tone of dismay, and he set down the heavy suit-case he was carrying, and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Have you been walking far?" Marjorie inquired sympathetically.

"Yes, I think I must have walked at least five miles already. My team broke down, one of the wheels came off, and the man who was driving me out to the ranch seemed to think the only thing to be done was to leave the wagon with my trunk on it by the roadside while he returned to town on horseback, to get another trap. He advised me to walk on, but I had no idea of the distance. Will you please tell me if this is the shortest way to the ranch?"

"It's the only way," said Marjorie, smiling, and thinking that this tall, broad-shouldered man must certainly be "a tenderfoot." Her own father thought nothing of a ten-mile tramp over the prairie.

"Then I suppose there is no help for it, but five miles--are you sure it's as much as five miles?"