As she pushed open the door, the first object that met her startled eyes was Bernardine lying like one dead on the floor.
Despite the fact that she was an invalid, Miss Rogers' nerves were exceedingly cool. She did not shriek out, or call excitedly to the other inmates of the house, but went about reviving the girl by wetting her handkerchief with water as cold as it would run from the faucet, and laving her marble-cold face with it, and afterward rubbing her hands briskly.
She was rewarded at length by seeing the great dark eyes slowly open, and the crimson tide of life drift back to the pale, cold cheeks and quivering lips.
A look of wonder filled Bernardine's eyes as she beheld Miss Rogers bending over her.
"Was it a dream, some awful dream?" she said, excitedly, catching at her friend's hands and clinging piteously to them.
"What caused your sudden illness, Bernardine?" questioned Miss Rogers, earnestly. "You were apparently well when I left you an hour since."
Still Bernardine clung to her with that awful look of agony in her beautiful eyes, but uttering no word.
"Has she gone?" she murmured, at length.
"Has who gone?" questioned Miss Rogers, wondering what she meant.
"The beautiful, pitiless stranger," sobbed Bernardine, catching her breath.