The next few days that passed were like a dream to Miss Rogers. Every one was so kind and considerate it seemed that she was living in another world.

Mrs. Pendleton had cautioned the girls against mentioning the fact of Sally’s coming marriage, explaining that she might change her mind about leaving her fortune to the family if she knew there was a prospect of wealth for them from any other source.

“But it would not be fair to let her make sister Sally her heiress,” said Louisa, bitterly. “She ought not to get both fortunes. She will come into a magnificent fortune through marrying Jay Gardiner. Why should you want her to have Miss Rogers’ money, too? You ought to influence that eccentric old lady to leave her fortune to me.”

“Hush, my dear. Miss Rogers might hear you,” warned her mother.

But the warning had come too late. In coming down the corridor to join the family in the general sitting-room, as they had always insisted on her doing, she had overheard Miss Louisa’s last remark.

She stopped short, the happy light dying from her eyes, and the color leaving her cheeks.

“Great Heaven! have I been deceived, after all? Was the kindness of the Pendleton girls and their parents only assumed? Was there a monetary reason back of it all?” she mused.

A great pain shot through her heart; a wave of intense bitterness filled her soul.

“I will test these girls,” muttered Miss Rogers, setting her lips together; “and that, too, before another hour passes over my head.”

After a few moments more of deliberation, she arose, and with firm step passed slowly down the broad hall to the sitting-room.

Mrs. Pendleton and her eldest daughter Louisa had left the apartment. Sally alone was there, lounging on a divan, her hair in curl-papers, reading the latest French novel.

On her entering, down went the book, and Sally sprung up, her face wreathed in smiles.

“I was just wondering if you were lonely or taking a nap,” she murmured, sweetly. “Do come right in, Miss Rogers, and let me draw the nicest easy-chair in the room up to the cool window for you and make you comfortable.”

“How considerate you are, my dear child,” replied Miss Rogers, fairly hating herself for believing this sweet young girl could dissemble. “I am glad to find you alone, Sally,” she continued, dropping into the chair with a weary sigh. “I have been wanting to have a confidential little chat with you, my dear, ever since I have been here. Have you the time to spare?”

Sally Pendleton’s blue eyes glittered. Of course Miss Rogers wanted to talk to her about leaving her money to her.

Sally brought a hassock, and placing it at her feet, sat down upon it, and rested her elbows on Miss Rogers’ chair.

“Now,” she said, with a tinkling little laugh that most every one liked to hear—the laugh that had given her the sobriquet, jolly Sally Pendleton, among her companions—an appellation which had ever since clung to her—“now I am ready to listen to whatever you have to tell me.”

After a long pause, which seemed terribly irksome to Sally, Miss Rogers slowly said:

“I think I may as well break right into the subject that is on my mind, and troubling me greatly, without beating around the bush.”

“That will certainly be the best way,” murmured Sally.

“Well, then, my dear,” said Miss Rogers, with harsh abruptness, “I am afraid I am living in this house under false colors.”

Sally’s blue eyes opened wide. She did not know what to say.

“The truth is, child, I am not the rich woman people credit me with being. I did not tell you that I had lost my entire fortune, and that I was reduced to penury and want—ay, I would have been reduced to starvation if you had not so kindly taken me in and done for me.”

“What! You have lost your great fortune? You are penniless?” fairly shrieked Sally, springing to her feet and looking with amazement into the wrinkled face above her.

Miss Rogers nodded assent, inwardly asking Heaven to pardon her for this, her first deliberate falsehood.

“And you came here to us, got the best room in our house, and all of mamma’s best clothes, and you a beggar!”

Miss Rogers fairly trembled under the storm of wrath she had evoked.

“I—I did not mention it when I first came, because I had somehow hoped you would care for me for myself, even though my money was gone, dear child.”

A sneering, scornful laugh broke from Sally’s lips, a glare hateful to behold flashed from her eyes.

“You have deceived us shamefully!” she cried. “How angry papa and mamma and Louisa will be to learn that we have been entertaining a pauper!”

“Perhaps you have been entertaining an angel unawares,” murmured Miss Rogers.

“God forgive you, girl, for showing so little heart!” exclaimed Miss Rogers, rising slowly to her feet.

“I shall take no saucy remarks from you!” cried Sally, harshly. “Come, make haste! Take off those fine clothes, and be gone as fast as you can!”

“But I have nothing to put on,” said Miss Rogers.

Sally instantly touched the bell, and when the maid came in response to her summons, she said, quickly:

“Bring me that bundle of clothes mamma laid out for you to give to the charity collector to-day.”

Wonderingly the maid brought the bundle, and she wondered still more when Miss Sally ordered her to go down to the servants’ hall, and not to come up until she was called for.

“Now, then,” she cried, harshly, after the door had closed upon the maid, “get into these duds at once!”

Miss Rogers obeyed; and when at length the change was made, Sally pointed to the door and cried, shrilly:

“Now go!”

“But the storm!” persisted Miss Rogers, piteously. “Oh, Sally, at least let me stay until the storm has spent its fury!”

“Not an instant!” cried Sally Pendleton, fairly dragging her from the room and down the corridor to the main door, which she flung open, thrust her victim through it, and out into the storm.