The girl had reached a point where longer endurance was impossible. The man whom she loved had been only deceiving her with his protestations of affection; he had laughed with his companions at the kisses he had bestowed on her sweet lips; and she abhorred the man who was to claim her on the morrow as the price of her father's liberty.
No wonder the world looked dark to the poor girl, and there seemed nothing in the future worth living for.
As the hours dragged by, Bernardine had made up her mind what to do.
The little clock on the mantel chimed the midnight hour as she arose from her low seat by the window, and putting on her hat, she glided from the wretched rooms that had been home to her all her dreary life.
Owing to the lateness of the hour, she encountered few people on the streets. There was no one to notice who she was or whither she went, save the old night-watchman who patroled the block.
"Poor child!" he muttered, thoughtfully, looking after the retreating figure; "she's going out to hunt for that drunken old scapegrace of a father, I'll warrant. It's dangerous for a fine young girl with a face like hers to be on the streets alone at this hour of the night. I've told the old basket-maker so scores of times, but somehow he does not seem to realize her great danger."
Bernardine drew down her dark veil, and waited until the people should go away. She was dressed in dark clothes, and sat so silently she attracted no particular attention; not even when she leaned over and looked longingly into the eddying waves.
Two or three ships bound for foreign ports were anchored scarcely fifty rods away. She could hear the songs and the laughter of the sailors. She waited until these sounds had subsided.
The girl sitting close in the shadow of one of the huge posts was not observed by the few stragglers strolling past.
One o'clock sounded from some far-off tower-clock; then the half hour struck.