Mr. Loomis, true to his word, wrote a few days later that hehad enquired in vain in the work-shop for any news of Ramy; and asshe folded this letter and laid it between the leaves of her Bible,Ann Eliza felt that her last hope was gone. Miss Mellins, ofcourse, had long since suggested the mediation of the police, andcited from her favourite literature convincing instances of thesupernatural ability of the Pinkerton detective; but Mr. Hawkins,when called in council, dashed this project by remarking thatdetectives cost something like twenty dollars a day; and a vaguefear of the law, some half-formed vision of Evelina in the clutchof a blue-coated "officer," kept Ann Eliza from invoking the aid ofthe police.

　　After the arrival of Mr. Loomis's note the weeks followed eachother uneventfully. Ann Eliza's cough clung to her till late inthe spring, the reflection in her looking-glass grew more bent andmeagre, and her forehead sloped back farther toward the twist ofhair that was fastened above her parting by a comb of black India-rubber.

　　Toward spring a lady who was expecting a baby took up herabode at the Mendoza Family Hotel, and through the friendlyintervention of Miss Mellins the making of some of the baby-clotheswas entrusted to Ann Eliza. This eased her of anxiety for theimmediate future; but she had to rouse herself to feel any sense ofrelief. Her personal welfare was what least concerned her.

　　Sometimes she thought of giving up the shop altogether; andonly the fear that, if she changed her address, Evelina might notbe able to find her, kept her from carrying out this plan.

　　Since she had lost her last hope of tracing her sister, allthe activities of her lonely imagination had been concentrated onthe possibility of Evelina's coming back to her. The discovery ofRamy's secret filled her with dreadful fears. In the solitude ofthe shop and the back room she was tortured by vague pictures ofEvelina's sufferings. What horrors might not be hidden beneath hersilence? Ann Eliza's great dread was that Miss Mellins should wormout of her what she had learned from Mr. Loomis. She was sure MissMellins must have abominable things to tell about drug-fiends--things she did not have the strength to hear. "Drug-fiend"--thevery word was Satanic; she could hear Miss Mellins roll it on hertongue. But Ann Eliza's own imagination, left to itself, had begunto people the long hours with evil visions. Sometimes, in thenight, she thought she heard herself called: the voice was hersister's, but faint with a nameless terror. Her most peacefulmoments were those in which she managed to convince herself thatEvelina was dead. She thought of her then, mournfully but morecalmly, as thrust away under the neglected mound of some unknowncemetery, where no headstone marked her name, no mourner withflowers for another grave paused in pity to lay a blossom on hers.

　　But this vision did not often give Ann Eliza its negative relief;and always, beneath its hazy lines, lurked the dark conviction thatEvelina was alive, in misery and longing for her.

　　So the summer wore on. Ann Eliza was conscious that Mrs.

　　Hawkins and Miss Mellins were watching her with affectionateanxiety, but the knowledge brought no comfort. She no longer caredwhat they felt or thought about her. Her grief lay far beyondtouch of human healing, and after a while she became aware thatthey knew they could not help her. They still came in as often astheir busy lives permitted, but their visits grew shorter, and Mrs.

　　Hawkins always brought Arthur or the baby, so that there should besomething to talk about, and some one whom she could scold.

　　The autumn came, and the winter. Business had fallen offagain, and but few purchasers came to the little shop in thebasement. In January Ann Eliza pawned her mother's cashmere scarf,her mosaic brooch, and the rosewood what-not on which the clock hadalways stood; she would have sold the bedstead too, but for thepersistent vision of Evelina returning weak and weary, and notknowing where to lay her head.

　　The winter passed in its turn, and March reappeared with itsgalaxies of yellow jonquils at the windy street corners, remindingAnn Eliza of the spring day when Evelina had come home with a bunchof jonquils in her hand. In spite of the flowers which lent sucha premature brightness to the streets the month was fierce andstormy, and Ann Eliza could get no warmth into her bones.

　　Nevertheless, she was insensibly beginning to take up the healingroutine of life. Little by little she had grown used to beingalone, she had begun to take a languid interest in the one or twonew purchasers the season had brought, and though the thought ofEvelina was as poignant as ever, it was less persistently in theforeground of her mind.

　　Late one afternoon she was sitting behind the counter, wrappedin her shawl, and wondering how soon she might draw down the blindsand retreat into the comparative cosiness of the back room. Shewas not thinking of anything in particular, except perhaps in ahazy way of the lady with the puffed sleeves, who after her longeclipse had reappeared the day before in sleeves of a new cut, andbought some tape and needles. The lady still wore mourning, butshe was evidently lightening it, and Ann Eliza saw in this the hopeof future orders. The lady had left the shop about an hour before,walking away with her graceful step toward Fifth Avenue. She hadwished Ann Eliza good day in her usual affable way, and Ann Elizathought how odd it was that they should have been acquainted solong, and yet that she should not know the lady's name. From thisconsideration her mind wandered to the cut of the lady's newsleeves, and she was vexed with herself for not having noted itmore carefully. She felt Miss Mellins might have liked to knowabout it. Ann Eliza's powers of observation had never beenas keen as Evelina's, when the latter was not too self-absorbed toexert them. As Miss Mellins always said, Evelina could "takepatterns with her eyes": she could have cut that new sleeve out ofa folded newspaper in a trice! Musing on these things, Ann Elizawished the lady would come back and give her another look at thesleeve. It was not unlikely that she might pass that way, for shecertainly lived in or about the Square. Suddenly Ann Elizaremarked a small neat handkerchief on the counter: it must havedropped from the lady's purse, and she would probably come back toget it. Ann Eliza, pleased at the idea, sat on behind the counterand watched the darkening street. She always lit the gas as lateas possible, keeping the box of matches at her elbow, so that ifany one came she could apply a quick flame to the gas-jet. Atlength through the deepening dusk she distinguished a slim darkfigure coming down the steps to the shop. With a little warmth ofpleasure about her heart she reached up to light the gas. "I dobelieve I'll ask her name this time," she thought. She raised theflame to its full height, and saw her sister standing in the door.

　　There she was at last, the poor pale shade of Evelina, herthin face blanched of its faint pink, the stiff ripples gone fromher hair, and a mantle shabbier than Ann Eliza's drawn about hernarrow shoulders. The glare of the gas beat full on her as shestood and looked at Ann Eliza.

　　"Sister--oh, Evelina! I knowed you'd come!"Ann Eliza had caught her close with a long moan of triumph.

　　Vague words poured from her as she laid her cheek againstEvelina's--trivial inarticulate endearments caught from Mrs.

　　Hawkins's long discourses to her baby.

　　For a while Evelina let herself be passively held; then shedrew back from her sister's clasp and looked about the shop. "I'mdead tired. Ain't there any fire?" she asked.

　　"Of course there is!" Ann Eliza, holding her hand fast, drewher into the back room. She did not want to ask any questions yet:

　　she simply wanted to feel the emptiness of the room brimmed fullagain by the one presence that was warmth and light to her.

　　She knelt down before the grate, scraped some bits of coal andkindling from the bottom of the coal-scuttle, and drew one of therocking-chairs up to the weak flame. "There--that'll blaze up ina minute," she said. She pressed Evelina down on the fadedcushions of the rocking-chair, and, kneeling beside her, began torub her hands.

　　"You're stone-cold, ain't you? Just sit still and warmyourself while I run and get the kettle. I've got something youalways used to fancy for supper." She laid her hand on Evelina'sshoulder. "Don't talk--oh, don't talk yet!" she implored. Shewanted to keep that one frail second of happiness between herselfand what she knew must come.

　　Evelina, without a word, bent over the fire, stretching herthin hands to the blaze and watching Ann Eliza fill the kettle andset the supper table. Her gaze had the dreamy fixity of a half-awakened child's.

　　Ann Eliza, with a smile of triumph, brought a slice of custardpie from the cupboard and put it by her sister's plate.

　　"You do like that, don't you? Miss Mellins sent it down to methis morning. She had her aunt from Brooklyn to dinner. Ain't itfunny it just so happened?""I ain't hungry," said Evelina, rising to approach the table.

　　She sat down in her usual place, looked about her with thesame wondering stare, and then, as of old, poured herself out thefirst cup of tea.

　　"Where's the what-not gone to?" she suddenly asked.

　　Ann Eliza set down the teapot and rose to get a spoon from thecupboard. With her back to the room she said: "The what-not? Why,you see, dearie, living here all alone by myself it only made onemore thing to dust; so I sold it."Evelina's eyes were still travelling about the familiar room.

　　Though it was against all the traditions of the Bunner family tosell any household possession, she showed no surprise at hersister's answer.

　　"And the clock? The clock's gone too.""Oh, I gave that away--I gave it to Mrs. Hawkins. She's kep'

　　awake so nights with that last baby.""I wish you'd never bought it," said Evelina harshly.