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 

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