Ann Eliza's words released their secret fear. “I wonder what's happened to him,” Evelina said. “You don't suppose he could be sick?” “I was wondering too,” Ann Eliza rejoined; and the sisters looked down at their plates. “I should think you'd oughter do something about that money pretty soon,” Evelina began again. “Well, I know I'd oughter. What would you do if you was me?” “If I was YOU,” said her sister, with perceptible emphasis and a rising blush, “I'd go right round and see if Mr. Ramy was sick. YOU could.” The words pierced Ann Eliza like a blade. “Yes, that's so,” she said. “It would only seem friendly, if he really IS sick. If I was you I'd go to-day,” Evelina continued; and after dinner Ann Eliza went. On the way she had to leave a parcel at the dyer's, and having performed that errand she turned toward Mr. Ramy's shop. Never before had she felt so old, so hopeless and humble. She knew she was bound on a love-errand of Evelina's, and the knowledge seemed to dry the last drop of young blood in her veins. It took from her, too, all her faded virginal shyness; and with a brisk composure she turned the handle of the clock-maker's door. But as she entered her heart began to tremble, for she saw Mr. Ramy, his face hidden in his hands, sitting behind the counter in an attitude of strange dejection. At the click of the latch he looked up slowly, fixing a lustreless stare on Ann Eliza. For a moment she thought he did not know her. “Oh, you're sick!” she exclaimed; and the sound of her voice seemed to recall his wandering senses. “Why, if it ain't Miss Bunner!” he said, in a low thick tone; but he made no attempt to move, and she noticed that his face was the colour of yellow ashes. “You ARE sick,” she persisted, emboldened by his evident need of help. “Mr. Ramy, it was real unfriendly of you not to let us know.” He continued to look at her with dull eyes. “I ain't been sick,” he said. “Leastways not very: only one of my old turns.” He spoke in a slow laboured way, as if he had difficulty in getting his words together. “Rheumatism?” she ventured, seeing how unwillingly he seemed to move. “Well--somethin' like, maybe. I couldn't hardly put a name to it.” “If it WAS anything like rheumatism, my grandmother used to make a tea--” Ann Eliza began: she had forgotten, in the warmth of the moment, that she had only come as Evelina's messenger. At the mention of tea an expression of uncontrollable repugnance passed over Mr. Ramy's face. “Oh, I guess I'm getting on all right. I've just got a headache to-day.” Ann Eliza's courage dropped at the note of refusal in his voice. “I'm sorry,” she said gently. “My sister and me'd have been glad to do anything we could for you.” “Thank you kindly,” said Mr. Ramy wearily; then, as she turned to the door, he added with an effort: “Maybe I'll step round to-morrow.”