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 door was opened, and a tall, slender young girl stood on the threshold, looking inquiringly into the stranger's face.
"I am looking for the home of David Moore and of his daughter Bernardine," said Miss Rogers.
"This is David Moore's home, and I am his daughter Bernardine," said the young girl, courteously, even though the stranger before her was illy clad.
"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."