his shop had vanished; and all through the day’s occupations the memory of this dream oppressed her.
It had been agreed that Ann Eliza should take the clock to be repaired as soon as they had dined; but while they were still at table a weak-eyed little girl in a black apron stabbed with innumerable pins burst in on them with the cry: “Oh, Miss Bunner, for mercy’s sake! Miss Mellins has been took again.”
Miss Mellins was the dressmaker upstairs, and the weak-eyed child one of her youthful apprentices.
Ann Eliza started from her seat. “I’ll come at once. Quick, Evelina, the cordial!”
By this euphemistic name the sisters designated a bottle of cherry brandy, the last of a dozen inherited from their grandmother, which they kept locked in their cupboard against such emergencies. A moment later, cordial in hand, Ann Eliza was hurrying upstairs behind the weak-eyed child.
Miss Mellins’ “turn” was sufficiently serious to detain Ann Eliza for nearly two hours, and dusk had fallen when she took up the depleted bottle of cordial and descended again to the shop. It was empty, as usual, and Evelina sat at her pinking-machine in the back room. Ann Eliza was still agitated by her efforts to restore the dressmaker, but in spite of her preoccupation she was struck, as soon as she entered, by the loud tick of the clock, which still stood on the shelf where she had left it.
“Why, she’s going!” she gasped, before Evelina could question her about Miss Mellins. “Did she start up again by herself?”
“Oh, no; but I couldn’t stand not knowing what time it was, I’ve got so accustomed to having her round; and just after you went upstairs Mrs. Hawkins dropped in, so I asked her to tend the store for a minute, and I clapped on my things and ran right round to Mr. Ramy’s. It turned out there wasn’t anything the matter with her— nothin’ on’y a speck of dust in the works—and he fixed her for me in a minute and I brought her right back. Ain’t it lovely to hear her going again? But tell me about Miss Mellins, quick!”
For a moment Ann Eliza found no words. Not till she learned that she had missed her chance did she understand how many hopes had hung upon it. Even now she did not know why she had wanted so much to see the clockmaker again.
“I s’pose it’s because nothing’s ever happened to me,” she thought, with a twinge of envy for the fate which gave Evelina every opportunity that came their way. “She had the Sunday-school teacher too,” Ann Eliza murmured to herself; but she was well-trained in the arts of renunciation, and after a scarcely perceptible pause she plunged into a detailed description of the dressmaker’s “turn.”
Evelina, when her curiosity was roused, was an insatiable questioner, and it was supper-time before she had come to the end of her enquiries about Miss Mellins; but when the two sisters had seated themselves at their evening meal Ann Eliza at last found a chance to say: “So she on’y had a speck of dust in her.”
Evelina understood at once that the reference was not to Miss Mellins. “Yes—at least he thinks so,” she answered, helping herself as a matter of course to the first cup of tea.
“On’y to think!” murmured Ann Eliza.
“But he isn’t SURE,” Evelina continued, absently pushing the teapot toward her sister. “It may be something wrong with the—I forget what he called it. Anyhow, he said he’d call round and see, day after tomorrow, after supper.”
“Who said?” gasped Ann Eliza.
“Why, Mr. Ramy, of course. I think he’s real nice, Ann Eliza. And I don’t believe he’s forty; but he DOES look sick. I guess he’s pretty lonesome, all by himself in that store. He as much as told me so, and somehow”—Evelina paused and bridled—“I kinder thought that maybe his saying he’d call round about the clock was on’y just an excuse. He said it just as I was going out of the store. What you think, Ann Eliza?”
“Oh, I don’t har’ly know.” To save herself, Ann Eliza could produce nothing warmer.
“Well, I don’t pretend to be smarter than other folks,” said Evelina, putting a conscious hand to her hair, “but I guess Mr. Herman Ramy wouldn’t be sorry to pass an evening here, ‘stead of spending it all alone in that poky little place of his.”
Her self-consciousness irritated Ann Eliza.
“I guess he’s got plenty of friends of his own,” she said, almost harshly.
“No, he ain’t, either. He’s got hardly any.”
“Did he tell you that too?” Even to her own ears there was a faint sneer in the interrogation.
“Yes, he did,” said Evelina, dropping her lids with a smile. “He seemed to be just crazy to talk to somebody—somebody agreeable, I mean. I think the man’s unhappy, Ann Eliza.”
“So do I,” broke from the elder sister.
“He seems such an educated man, too. He was reading the paper when I went in. Ain’t it sad to think of his being reduced to that little store, after being years at Tiff’ny’s, and one of the head men in their clock-department?”
“He told you all that?”
“Why, yes. I think he’d a’ told me everything ever happened to him if I’d had the time to stay and listen. I tell you he’s dead lonely, Ann Eliza.”
“Yes,” said Ann Eliza.
III
Two days afterward, Ann Eliza noticed that Evelina, before they sat down to supper, pinned a crimson bow under her collar; and when the meal was finished the younger sister, who seldom concerned herself with the clearing of the table, set about with nervous haste to help Ann Eliza in the removal of the dishes.
“I hate to see food mussing about,” she grumbled. “Ain’t it hateful having to do everything in one room?”
“Oh, Evelina, I’ve always thought we was so comfortable,” Ann Eliza protested.
“Well, so we are, comfortable enough; but I don’t suppose there’s any harm in my saying I wisht we had a parlour, is there? Anyway, we might manage to buy a screen to hide the bed.”
Ann Eliza coloured. There was something vaguely embarrassing in Evelina’s suggestion.
“I always think if we ask for more what we have may be taken from us,” she ventured.
“Well, whoever took it wouldn’t get much,” Evelina retorted with a laugh as she swept up the tablecloth.
A few moments later the back room was in its usual flawless order and the two sisters had seated themselves near the lamp. Ann Eliza had taken up her sewing, and Evelina was preparing to make artificial flowers. The sisters usually relegated this more delicate business to the long leisure of the summer months; but tonight Evelina had brought out the box which lay all winter under the bed, and spread before her a bright array of muslin petals, yellow stamens and green corollas, and a tray of little implements curiously suggestive of the dental art. Ann Eliza made no remark on this unusual proceeding; perhaps she guessed why, for that evening her sister had chosen a graceful task.
Presently a knock on the outer door made them look up; but Evelina,
