fate weaves a strange web.

if sally pendleton had taken the trouble to look out after the trembling old woman she had thrust so unceremoniously into the raging storm, she would not have gone up to her own room with such a self-satisfied smile on her face.

just as that little scene was taking place, a brougham, drawn by a pair of spirited horses, was being driven rapidly down the street, and was almost abreast of the house as this extraordinary little drama was being enacted.

its occupant had ordered the driver to halt at the pendleton mansion, and looking out of the window, he had seen with amazement the whole occurrence—had seen sally pendleton, who had always posed before him as a sweet-tempered angel—actually thrust a feeble-looking, poorly-dressed woman out of the house and into the street to face a storm so wild and pitiless that most people would have hesitated before even turning a homeless, wandering cur out into it.

doctor gardiner's carriage drew up quickly before the curbstone, and as he sprung from the vehicle, his astonishment can better be imagined than described at finding himself face to face with his friend, miss rogers, and that it was she who had been ejected so summarily. the poor soul almost fainted for joy when she beheld the young physician.

"my dear miss rogers!" he cried in amazement, "what in the name of heaven does the scene i have just witnessed mean?"

"take me into your carriage, and drive down the street; that is, if you are not in a hurry to make a professional call."

jay gardiner lifted the drenched, trembling woman in his strong arms, placed her in the vehicle, took his seat beside her, and the brougham rolled down the avenue.

clinging to his strong young arm, miss rogers told, between her smiles and tears, all that had taken place—of the test which she had put the pendletons to before leaving her money to the girl sally, who had been named after her; of its disastrous ending when she told sally she was poor instead of rich; of the abuse the girl had heaped upon her, which ended by throwing her into the street.

she told all, keeping back nothing, little dreaming that jay gardiner knew the pendletons, and, least of all, that sally was his betrothed.

he listened with darkening brow, his stern lips set, his handsome, jovial, laughing face strangely white.

what could he say to her? he dared not give vent to his bitter thoughts, and denounce the girl he was in honor bound to give his name and shield from all the world's remarks.

"you have learned your lesson, miss rogers," he said, slowly. "now be content to return to your own luxurious home and its comforts, a sadder and wiser woman."

"i have not tested all yet," she returned. "there is yet another family, whose address i have recently discovered after the most patient search. i had a cousin by marriage who ran off with a sea-captain. she died, leaving one child, a little daughter. the father no longer follows the sea, but lives at home with the girl, following the trade of basket-making, at which he is quite an expert, i am told, if he would only let drink alone."

jay gardiner started violently. the color came and went in his face, his strong hands trembled. he was thankful she did not notice his emotion.

"the man's name is david moore," she went on, reflectively, "and the girl's is bernardine. a strange name for a girl, don't you think so?"

"a beautiful name," he replied, with much feeling; "and i should think the girl who bears it might have all the sweet, womanly graces you long to find in a human being."

miss rogers gave him the street and number, which he knew but too well, and asked him to drive her within a few doors of the place, where she would alight.

when she was so near her destination that she did not have time to ask questions, he said, abruptly:

"i know this family—the old basket-maker and his daughter. i attended him in a recent illness. they seem very worthy, to me, of all confidence. there is a world of difference between this young girl bernardine and the one you describe as miss sally pendleton. please don't mention that you know me, miss rogers, if you would do me a favor," he added, as she alighted.

the landing was so dark she could hardly discern where the door was on which to knock.

she heard the sound of voices a moment later. this sound guided her, and she was soon tapping at a door which was slightly ajar. she heard some one say from within:

"some one is rapping at the door, bernardine. send whoever it is away. the sight of a neighbor's face, or her senseless gossip, would drive me crazy, bernardine."

"i shall not invite any one in if it annoys you, father," answered a sweet, musical voice.

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."

"did you know my mother?" exclaimed bernardine, clasping her hands together, and looking eagerly at the stranger in the coarse, ill-fitting gown.

"yes, my dear; i knew her years ago, when we were both young girls. she looked then as you do now. i was distantly related to her, in fact. i—i was wealthy in those days, but i have since lost all my money, and am now reduced to penury—ay, to want," murmured the shabbily dressed woman.

bernardine sprung forward excitedly.

"surely you can not be the great miss rogers of california, of whom i have heard her speak thousands of times?"

"yes, i am miss rogers, my dear; great once, in the eyes of the world, when i had money, but despised now, that i am reduced and in want."

in a moment bernardine's arms were around her, and tears were falling from the girl's beautiful dark eyes.

"oh, do not say that, dear miss rogers!" she cried. "i love you because my mother loved you in the days that are past. money does not always bring love, and the loss of it can not lessen the love of those who owe us allegiance, and who have a true affection for us. welcome, a thousand times welcome to our home, dear aunt, if you will let me call you that; and—and i shall use my influence to have father invite you to share our humble home forever, if you only will."

"no, no, bernardine," replied miss rogers. "you have mouths enough to earn bread for."

"one more would not signify," declared bernardine; "and your presence beneath this roof would amply compensate me. i would take a world of pleasure in working a little harder than i do now to keep you here."

"before you give me too much hope on that point you had better talk it over with your father. he may think differently from what you do. he may not want to keep a tramp's boarding-house," she added, quietly.

"father will be sure to think as i do," reiterated bernardine. "he has a rough exterior, but the kindest of hearts beats in his rugged bosom."

"you are right there, bernardine," said david moore, pushing open an inner door and coming forward. "i could not help overhearing all that passed between you two. i am sorry you have lost all your money, miss rogers; but that will not make any difference in the heartiness of the welcome we give you; and if bernardine wants you to stay here with us, stay you shall. so take off your bonnet, and make yourself at home."