A great pain shot through her heart; a wave of intense bitterness filled her soul.
"I will test these girls," muttered Miss Rogers, setting her lips together; "and that, too, before another hour passes over my head."
After a few moments more of deliberation, she arose, and with firm step passed slowly down the broad hall to the sitting-room.
Mrs. Pendleton and her eldest daughter Louisa had left the apartment. Sally alone was there, lounging on a divan, her hair in curl-papers, reading the latest French novel.
On her entering, down went the book, and Sally sprung up, her face wreathed in smiles.
"I was just wondering if you were lonely or taking a nap," she murmured, sweetly. "Do come right in, Miss Rogers, and let me draw the nicest easy-chair in the room up to the cool window for you and make you comfortable."
"How considerate you are, my dear child," replied Miss Rogers, fairly hating herself for believing this sweet young girl could dissemble. "I am glad to find you alone, Sally," she continued, dropping into the chair with a weary sigh. "I have been wanting to have a confidential little chat with you, my dear, ever since I have been here. Have you the time to spare?"
Sally Pendleton's blue eyes glittered. Of course Miss Rogers wanted to talk to her about leaving her money to her.
Sally brought a hassock, and placing it at her feet, sat down upon it, and rested her elbows on Miss Rogers' chair.
"Now," she said, with a tinkling little laugh that most every one liked to hear—the laugh that had given her the sobriquet, jolly Sally Pendleton, among her companions—an appellation which had ever since clung to her—"now I am ready to listen to whatever you have to tell me."