The policeman was used to all phases of human nature. He saw that this girl's grief was genuine, and felt sorry for her. "Surely you have a home, friends, here somewhere?" he asked. Bernardine shook her head, sobbing piteously. "I lived in the tenement house on Canal Street that has just been burned down. My father perished in it, leaving me alone in the world--homeless, shelterless--and--and this man asked me to marry him, and--and I--did." The policeman was convinced more than ever by her story that some _roue_ had taken advantage of the girl's pitiful situation to lead her astray. "That's bad. But surely you have friends _somewhere_?" Again Bernardine shook her head, replying, forlornly: "Not one on earth. Papa and I lived only for each other." The policeman looked down thoughtfully for a moment. He said to himself that he ought to try to save her from the fate which he was certain lay before her. "I suppose he left you without a cent, the scoundrel?" he queried, brusquely. "Oh, don't speak of him harshly!" cried Bernardine, distressedly. "I am sure something has happened to prevent his coming. He left his pocket-book with me, and there is considerable money in it." "Ah! the scoundrel had a little more heart than I gave him credit for," thought the policeman. He did not take the trouble to ask the name of the man whom she believed had wedded her, being certain that he had given a fictitious one to her. "There is a boarding-house just two blocks from here, that I would advise you to go to for the night, at least, young lady," he said, "and if he comes I will send him around there. I can not miss him if he comes, for I will be on this beat, pacing up and down, until seven o'clock to-morrow morning. See, the rain has commenced to come down pretty hard. Come!" There was nothing else to do but accept the kind policeman's suggestion. As it was, by the time she reached the house to which he good-naturedly piloted her, the fierce storm was raging in earnest. He spoke a few words, which Bernardine could not catch, to the white-haired, benevolent-looking lady who opened the door. She turned to the girl with outstretched hands. "Come right in, my dear," she said, gently; "come right in." "I was waiting for my husband, but somehow I missed him," explained Bernardine. "The policeman will be sure to run across him and send him around here." The lady looked pityingly at the beautiful young face--a look that made Bernardine a little nervous, though there was nothing but gentleness and kindness in it. "We will talk about that in the morning," she said. "I will show you to a room. The house is quite full just now, and I shall have to put you in a room with another young girl. Pardon the question, but have you had your supper?" "No," replied Bernardine, frankly, "and I am hungry and fatigued." "I will send you up a bowl of bread and milk, and a cup of nice hot tea," said the lady.