"I am Mrs. Gardiner's paid companion," responded Bernardine, huskily.
"And I am Mrs. Gardiner's guest, surprising as that may seem. But let us step into some quiet nook where we can seat ourselves and talk without interruption," said Miss Rogers. "I have much to ask you about, and much to tell you."
"Will you come to my apartment?" asked Bernardine.
The little old lady nodded, the action of her head setting all her jewels to dancing like points of flame.
Bernardine led the way to the modestly furnished room almost opposite Mrs. Gardiner's, and drawing forward a chair for her companion, placed her in it with the same gentle kindness she had exhibited toward poor, old, friendless Miss Rogers in those other days.
"Before I say anything, my dear," began Miss Rogers, "I want to know just what took place from the moment you fled from your father's humble home up to the present time. Did you—elope with any one?"
She saw the girl's fair face flush, then grow pale; but the dark, true, earnest eyes of Bernardine did not fall beneath her searching gaze.
"I am grieved that you wrong me to that extent, Miss Rogers," she answered, slowly. "No, I did not elope. I simply left the old tenement house because I could not bear my father's entreaties to hurry up the approaching marriage between the man I hated—Jasper Wilde—and myself. The more I thought of it, the more repugnant it became to me.
"I made my way down to the river. I did not heed how cold and dark it was. I—I took one leap, crying out to God to be merciful to me, and then the dark waters, with the awful chill of death upon them, closed over me, and I went down—down—and I knew no more.
"But Heaven did not intend that I should die then. I still had more misery to go through; for that was I saved. I was rescued half drowned—almost lifeless—and taken to an old nurse's home, where I lay two weeks hovering between life and death.