a deep red glow to the
handsome furnishings and costly bric-a-brac. There was something about
the room that reminded Bernardine of the pictures her imagination had
drawn of Oriental _boudoirs_.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of a haughty voice saying:

"Are _you_ Miss Bernardine Moore?"

By this time Bernardine's eyes had become accustomed to the dim,
uncertain light. Turning her head in the direction whence the sound
proceeded, she saw a very grand lady, dressed in stiff, shining brocade
satin, with rare lace and sparkling diamonds on her breast and fair
hands, sitting in a crimson velvet arm-chair--a grand old lady, cold,
haughty, and unbending.

"Yes, madame," replied Bernardine, in a sweet, low voice, "I am Miss
Moore."

"You are a very much younger person than I supposed you to be from your
letter, Miss Moore. Scarcely more than a child, I should say," she
added, as she motioned Bernardine to a seat with a wave of the hand. "I
will speak plainly," she went on, slowly. "I am disappointed. I imagined
you to be a young lady of uncertain age--say, thirty or thirty-five.
When a woman reaches that age, and has found no one to marry her, there
is a chance of her becoming reconciled to her fate. I want a companion
with whom I can feel secure. I do not want any trouble with love or
lovers, above all. I would not like to get used to a companion, and have
her leave me for some man. In fine, you see, I want one who will put all
thought of love or marriage from her."

Bernardine held out her clasped hands.

"You need have no fear on that score, dear madame," she replied in a
trembling tone. "I shall never love--I shall never marry. I--I never
want to behold the face of a man. Please believe me and trust me."

"Since you are here, I may as well take you on trial," replied the grand
old lady, resignedly. "Now you may go to your room, Miss Moore. You will
come to me here at nine to-morrow morning," she said, dismissing
Bernardine with a haughty nod.

The housekeeper had said she would find the room that had been prepared
for her at the extreme end of the same corridor, and in groping her way
to it in the dim, rose-colored light which pervaded the outer hall, she
unconsciously turned in the wrong direction, and went to the right
instead of the left.

The door stood ajar, and thinking the housekeeper had left it in this
way for her, Bernardine pushed it open.

To her great astonishment, she found herself in