"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. But I can not well come again, and it is raining torrents outside."

"Yes, you may enter, and remain until the storm abates," said Bernardine, cheerfully. "My father would not let any one leave his door in such a storm as this. Pray come in, madame."

"It is kind of you to say 'madame' to a creature like me," sighed the stranger, following the girl into the poorly furnished but scrupulously neat apartment.

Bernardine smiled.

"When I was very young, one of the first lessons my dear mother taught me was to be polite to every one," she returned, quietly.

"You look like your mother, my dear," said Miss Rogers, huskily. "I--I was afraid you would not."

"Did you know my mother?" exclaimed Bernardine, clasping her hands together, and looking eagerly at the stranger in the coa.r.s.e, ill-fitting gown.

"Yes, my dear; I knew her years ago, when we were both young girls. She looked then as you do now. I was distantly related to her, in fact. I--I was wealthy in those days, but I have since lost all my money, and am now reduced to penury--ay, to want," murmured the shabbily dressed woman.

Bernardine sprung forward excitedly.

"Surely you can not be the great Miss Rogers of California, of whom I have heard her speak thousands of times?"

"Yes, I am Miss Rogers, my dear; great once, in the eyes of the world, when I had money, but despised now, that I am reduced and in want."

In a moment Bernardine's arms were around her, and tears were falling from the girl's beautiful dark eyes.

"Oh, do not say that, dear Miss Rogers!" she cried. "_I_ love you because my mother loved you in the days that are past. Money does not always bring love, and the loss of it can not lessen the love of those who owe us allegiance, and who have a true affection for us. Welcome, a thousand times welcome to our home, dear aunt, if you will let me call you that; and--and I shall use my influence to have father invite you to share our humble home forever, if you only will."

"No, no, Bernardine," replied Miss Rogers. "You have mouths enough to earn bread for."

"One more would not signify," declared Bernardine; "and your presence beneath this roof would amply compensate me. I would take a world of pleasure in working a little harder than I do now to keep you here."

"Before you give me too much hope on that point you had better talk it over with your father. He may think differently from what you do. He may not want to keep a tramp's boarding-house," she added, quietly.

"Father will be sure to think as I do," reiterated Bernardine. "He has a rough exterior, but the kindest of hearts beats in his rugged bosom."

"You are right there, Bernardine," said David Moore, pushing open an inner door and coming forward. "I could not help overhearing all that pa.s.sed between you two. I am sorry you have lost all your money, Miss Rogers; but that will not make any difference in the heartiness of the welcome we give you; and if Bernardine wants you to stay here with us, stay you shall. So take off your bonnet, and make yourself at home."

CHAPTER XIX.

"TRUE LOVE NEVER DOES RUN SMOOTH."

Miss Rogers was quite overcome by the hearty welcome she received from David Moore, the old basket-maker, and Bernardine, his lovely daughter.

It went straight to her lonely heart, because she knew it was genuine friendship untainted by mercenary motives.

She shared Bernardine's humble yet dainty apartment, and fell quite naturally into being a member of the household.

There was one thing which puzzled her greatly, and that was, the sighs that would rend sweet Bernardine's breast while she was sleeping.

"The girl has some secret sorrow which she is hiding from the world,"

she thought, anxiously. "I must find out what it is."

She had been an inmate of Bernardine's home for a week before she learned that the girl was soon to be wedded. Bernardine's father told her, hinting triumphantly that that event would mean the dawn of a more prosperous future for the family, as her intended husband was very rich--had money to burn.

"Don't say much about him to Bernardine," he added, quickly; "for she's not in love with him by any means."

"Then why is she going to marry him?" asked Miss Rogers, amazedly.

"He has money," replied David Moore, nodding his head wisely; "and that's what sharp girls are looking for nowadays."

"I thought love was the ruling power which moved young girls' hearts,"

responded Miss Rogers, slowly. "At least, it used to be when I was a young girl like Bernardine."

He laughed uneasily, but made no reply, as Bernardine entered the room at that instant with an open letter in her hand.

"Jasper Wilde has returned to the city, father," she said, tremulously, "and--and he is coming here this evening to see us."

As the girl uttered the words, Miss Rogers was quite sure she could detect the sound of tears in her quivering voice.

"I am very glad," replied David Moore, endeavoring to speak lightly. "I shall be mighty pleased to see my prospective son-in-law."

Bernardine drew back quickly, her lovely face pitifully pale, then turned abruptly and hurried from the room.

Miss Rogers followed her. The girl went to her own apartment, threw herself on her knees, and burying her face in the counterpane, wept such bitter, pa.s.sionate tears that Miss Rogers was alarmed for her.

"You poor child!" exclaimed Miss Rogers. "Sit down here beside me, and tell me the whole story--let me understand it."

"I can not tell you any more. I met one whom I _could_ love, and--we--parted. I sent him away because my father had declared that I should marry this other one."

"Because of his wealth?" said Miss Rogers, in a strangely hard voice.

"No, no! Do not do my father that injustice. It was not because of his wealth. I--I should have had to marry him had he been the poorest man in the city."

"It is cruel, it is outrageous, to ask a young girl to marry a man whom she detests. It is barbarous. In my opinion, that is carrying parental authority too far. This marriage must not take place, Bernardine. It would be wicked--a sin against G.o.d."

Although Miss Rogers did her best to probe into the mystery--for Bernardine's sake--the girl was strangely obdurate. So she said no more to her on the subject just then; but when she approached David Moore on this topic, his incoherent replies puzzled her still more.

"I am much obliged to you for taking such an interest in Bernardine's affairs; but let me warn you of one thing, Miss Rogers, while you are under my roof, don't attempt to meddle with what does not concern you in any way. By heeding my remark, we shall keep good friends. This marriage must take place. The young fellow is good enough, and she'll get to like him after awhile. See if she doesn't."

The harsh, abrupt manner in which he uttered these words told Miss Rogers that little hope could be entertained from that source.

Bernardine had almost cried herself ill by the time Jasper Wilde's knock was heard on the door.

Mr. Moore answered the summons.

"Is there any use in my coming in?" asked Wilde, grimly, coming to a halt on the threshold. "Does your daughter consent to marry me? I could not make head or tail out of your letter."