"You must not be frightened if you hear odd noises in the night. It's only mice. This is the old part of the mansion," said the housekeeper, turning to go.
"Am I near any one else?" asked Bernardine, her heart sinking with a strange foreboding which she could not shake off.
"Not very near," answered the housekeeper.
"Would no one hear me if I screamed?" whispered Bernardine, drawing closer to her companion, as though she would detain her, her frightened eyes burning like two great coals of fire.
"I hope you will not make the experiment, Miss Moore," returned the housekeeper, impatiently. "Good-night," and with that she is gone, and Bernardine is left—alone.
The girl stands quite still where the housekeeper has left her long after the echo of her footsteps has died away.
She is in his home, and he is coming here with his bride! Great God! what irony of fate led her here?
Her bonnet and cloak are over her arm.
"Shall I don them, and fly from this place?" she asks herself over and over again.
But her tired limbs begin to ache, every nerve in her body begins to twitch, and she realizes that her tired nature has endured all it can. She must stay here, for the night at least.