“We'll be real glad,” Ann Eliza repeated. Her eyes were fixed on a dusty bronze clock in the window. She was unaware of looking at it at the time, but long afterward she remembered that it represented a Newfoundland dog with his paw on an open book. When she reached home there was a purchaser in the shop, turning over hooks and eyes under Evelina's absent-minded supervision. Ann Eliza passed hastily into the back room, but in an instant she heard her sister at her side. “Quick! I told her I was goin' to look for some smaller hooks--how is he?” Evelina gasped. “He ain't been very well,” said Ann Eliza slowly, her eyes on Evelina's eager face; “but he says he'll be sure to be round to-morrow night.” “He will? Are you telling me the truth?” “Why, Evelina Bunner!” “Oh, I don't care!” cried the younger recklessly, rushing back into the shop. Ann Eliza stood burning with the shame of Evelina's self-exposure. She was shocked that, even to her, Evelina should lay bare the nakedness of her emotion; and she tried to turn her thoughts from it as though its recollection made her a sharer in her sister's debasement. The next evening, Mr. Ramy reappeared, still somewhat sallow and red-lidded, but otherwise his usual self. Ann Eliza consulted him about the investment he had recommended, and after it had been settled that he should attend to the matter for her he took up the illustrated volume of Longfellow--for, as the sisters had learned, his culture soared beyond the newspapers--and read aloud, with a fine confusion of consonants, the poem on “Maidenhood.” Evelina lowered her lids while he read. It was a very beautiful evening, and Ann Eliza thought afterward how different life might have been with a companion who read poetry like Mr. Ramy. VII During the ensuing weeks Mr. Ramy, though his visits were as frequent as ever, did not seem to regain his usual spirits. He complained frequently of headache, but rejected Ann Eliza's tentatively proffered remedies, and seemed to shrink from any prolonged investigation of his symptoms. July had come, with a sudden ardour of heat, and one evening, as the three sat together by the open window in the back room, Evelina said: “I dunno what I wouldn't give, a night like this, for a breath of real country air.” “So would I,” said Mr. Ramy, knocking the ashes from his pipe. “I'd like to be setting in an arbour dis very minute.” “Oh, wouldn't it be lovely?” “I always think it's real cool here--we'd be heaps hotter up where Miss Mellins is,” said Ann Eliza. “Oh, I daresay--but we'd be heaps cooler somewhere else,” her sister snapped: she was not infrequently exasperated by Ann Eliza's furtive attempts to mollify Providence.