"What! You have lost your great fortune? _You are penniless?_" fairly shrieked Sally, springing to her feet and looking with amazement into the wrinkled face above her.

Miss Rogers nodded a.s.sent, inwardly asking Heaven to pardon her for this, her first deliberate falsehood.

"And you came here to us, got the best room in our house, and all of mamma's best clothes, and you a beggar!"

Miss Rogers fairly trembled under the storm of wrath she had evoked.

"I--I did not mention it when I first came, because I had somehow hoped you would care for me for myself, even though my money was gone, dear child."

A sneering, scornful laugh broke from Sally's lips, a glare hateful to behold flashed from her eyes.

"You have deceived us shamefully!" she cried. "How angry papa and mamma and Louisa will be to learn that we have been entertaining a pauper!"

"Perhaps you have been entertaining an angel unawares," murmured Miss Rogers.

"G.o.d forgive you, girl, for showing so little heart!" exclaimed Miss Rogers, rising slowly to her feet.

"I shall take no saucy remarks from you!" cried Sally, harshly. "Come, make haste! Take off those fine clothes, and be gone as fast as you can!"

"But I have nothing to put on," said Miss Rogers.

Sally instantly touched the bell, and when the maid came in response to her summons, she said, quickly:

"Bring me that bundle of clothes mamma laid out for you to give to the charity collector to-day."

Wonderingly the maid brought the bundle, and she wondered still more when Miss Sally ordered her to go down to the servants' hall, and not to come up until she was called for.

"Now, then," she cried, harshly, after the door had closed upon the maid, "get into these duds at once!"

Miss Rogers obeyed; and when at length the change was made, Sally pointed to the door and cried, shrilly:

"Now go!"

"But the storm!" persisted Miss Rogers, piteously. "Oh, Sally, at least let me stay until the storm has spent its fury!"

"Not an instant!" cried Sally Pendleton, fairly dragging her from the room and down the corridor to the main door, which she flung open, thrust her victim through it, and out into the storm.

CHAPTER XVIII.

FATE WEAVES A STRANGE WEB.

If Sally Pendleton had taken the trouble to look out after the trembling old woman she had thrust so unceremoniously into the raging storm, she would not have gone up to her own room with such a self-satisfied smile on her face.

Just as that little scene was taking place, a brougham, drawn by a pair of spirited horses, was being driven rapidly down the street, and was almost abreast of the house as this extraordinary little drama was being enacted.

Its occupant had ordered the driver to halt at the Pendleton mansion, and looking out of the window, he had seen with amazement the whole occurrence--had seen Sally Pendleton, who had always posed before him as a sweet-tempered angel--actually thrust a feeble-looking, poorly-dressed woman out of the house and into the street to face a storm so wild and pitiless that most people would have hesitated before even turning a homeless, wandering cur out into it.

Doctor Gardiner's carriage drew up quickly before the curbstone, and as he sprung from the vehicle, his astonishment can better be imagined than described at finding himself face to face with his friend, Miss Rogers, and that it was she who had been ejected so summarily. The poor soul almost fainted for joy when she beheld the young physician.

"My dear Miss Rogers!" he cried in amazement, "what in the name of Heaven does the scene I have just witnessed mean?"

"Take me into your carriage, and drive down the street; that is, if you are not in a hurry to make a professional call."

Jay Gardiner lifted the drenched, trembling woman in his strong arms, placed her in the vehicle, took his seat beside her, and the brougham rolled down the avenue.

Clinging to his strong young arm, Miss Rogers told, between her smiles and tears, all that had taken place--of the test which she had put the Pendletons to before leaving her money to the girl Sally, who had been named after her; of its disastrous ending when she told Sally she was poor instead of rich; of the abuse the girl had heaped upon her, which ended by throwing her into the street.

She told all, keeping back nothing, little dreaming that Jay Gardiner knew the Pendletons, and, least of all, that Sally was his betrothed.

He listened with darkening brow, his stern lips set, his handsome, jovial, laughing face strangely white.

What could he say to her? He dared not give vent to his bitter thoughts, and denounce the girl he was in honor bound to give his name and shield from all the world's remarks.

"You have learned your lesson, Miss Rogers," he said, slowly. "Now be content to return to your own luxurious home and its comforts, a sadder and wiser woman."

"I have not tested _all_ yet," she returned. "There is yet another family, whose address I have recently discovered after the most patient search. I had a cousin by marriage who ran off with a sea-captain. She died, leaving one child, a little daughter. The father no longer follows the 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.