of the world, where Jasper
Wilde could not find them, declaring that she would raise the money to
defray their traveling expenses.

David Moore shook his head.

"There is no part of the world to which we could go that he would not
find us," he muttered, burying his face in his shaking hands. "But we
will speak no more about it. It unmans me to think what would happen
were----" and he stopped short.

He had often heard Miss Rogers make allusion to money she could lay her
hand on at any moment; but the old basket-maker never believed her. He
fancied that the poor woman had a sort of mania that she was possessed
of means which she could lay her hand on at any moment, and all she said
on the subject he considered as but visionary, and paid no attention to
it whatever.

Poor Miss Rogers was in despair. What could she do to save Bernardine?
She worried so over the matter that by evening she had so severe a
headache that she was obliged to retire to her room and lie down.

David Moore had drunk himself into insensibility early in the evening,
and Bernardine, sick at heart, alone, wretched, and desolate, was left
by herself to look the dread future in the face.

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 r