"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.