e sea, but lives at home with the girl, following the trade of
basket-making, at which he is quite an expert, I am told, if he would
only let drink alone."

Jay Gardiner started violently. The color came and went in his face, his
strong hands trembled. He was thankful she did not notice his emotion.

"The man's name is David Moore," she went on, reflectively, "and the
girl's is Bernardine. A strange name for a girl, don't you think so?"

"A beautiful name," he replied, with much feeling; "and I should think
the girl who bears it might have all the sweet, womanly graces you long
to find in a human being."

Miss Rogers gave him the street and number, which he knew but too well,
and asked him to drive her within a few doors of the place, where she
would alight.

When she was so near her destination that she did not have time to ask
questions, he said, abruptly:

"I know this family--the old basket-maker and his daughter. I attended
him in a recent illness. They seem very worthy, to me, of all
confidence. There is a world of difference between this young girl
Bernardine and the one you describe as Miss Sally Pendleton. Please
don't mention that you know me, Miss Rogers, if you would do me a
favor," he added, as she alighted.

The landing was so dark she could hardly discern where the door was on
which to knock.

She heard the sound of voices a moment later. This sound guided her, and
she was soon tapping at a door which was slightly ajar. She heard some
one say from within:

"Some one is rapping at the door, Bernardine. Send whoever it is away.
The sight of a neighbor's face, or her senseless gossip, would drive me
crazy, Bernardine."

"I shall not invite any one in if it annoys you, father," answered a
sweet, musical voice.

Miss Rogers leaned against the door-frame, wondering what the girl was
like who had so kindly a voice.

There was the soft _frou-frou_ of a woman's skirts, the door was opened,
and a tall, slender young girl stood on the threshold, looking
inquiringly into the stranger's face.

"I am looking for the home of David Moore and of his daughter
Bernardine," said Miss Rogers.

"This is David Moore's home, and I am his daughter Bernardine," said the
young girl, courteously, even though the stranger before her was illy
clad.

"Won't you invite me in for a few moments?" asked Miss Rogers,
wistfully. "I heard what some one, your father probably, said about not
wanting to see any one just now.