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. Bernardine rose slowly to her feet, and looked back at the lights of the great city that she was leaving. There would be no one to miss her; no one to weep over her untimely fate; no one to grieve that she had taken the fatal step to eternity. Her father would be glad that there was no one to follow his step by night and by day, and plead with the wine-sellers to give him no more drink. He would rejoice that he could follow his own will, and drink as much as he pleased. There was no dear old mother whose heart would break; no gentle sister or brother who would never forget her; no husband to mourn for her; no little child to hold out its hands to the blue sky, and cry to her to come back. No one would miss her on the face of God's earth. Alas! for poor Bernardine, how little she knew that at that very hour the man whose love she craved most was wearing his very heart out for love of her. Bernardine took but one hurried glance backward; then, with a sobbing cry, sprung over the pier, and into the dark, seething waters. CHAPTER XXVII. When Jay Gardiner left the city, he had expected to be gone a week, possibly a fortnight; but, owing to an unexpected turn in the business he was transacting, he was enabled to settle it in a day or so, and return to the city.