There she was at last, the poor pale shade of Evelina, her thin face blanched of its faint pink, the stiff ripples gone from her hair, and a mantle shabbier than Ann Eliza's drawn about her narrow shoulders. The glare of the gas beat full on her as she stood 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 against Evelina's--trivial inarticulate endearments caught from Mrs. Hawkins's long discourses to her baby. For a while Evelina let herself be passively held; then she drew back from her sister's clasp and looked about the shop. “I'm dead tired. Ain't there any fire?” she asked. “Of course there is!” Ann Eliza, holding her hand fast, drew her into the back room. She did not want to ask any questions yet: she simply wanted to feel the emptiness of the room brimmed full again by the one presence that was warmth and light to her. She knelt down before the grate, scraped some bits of coal and kindling from the bottom of the coal-scuttle, and drew one of the rocking-chairs up to the weak flame. “There--that'll blaze up in a minute,” she said. She pressed Evelina down on the faded cushions of the rocking-chair, and, kneeling beside her, began to rub her hands. “You're stone-cold, ain't you? Just sit still and warm yourself while I run and get the kettle. I've got something you always used to fancy for supper.” She laid her hand on Evelina's shoulder. “Don't talk--oh, don't talk yet!” she implored. She wanted to keep that one frail second of happiness between herself and what she knew must come. Evelina, without a word, bent over the fire, stretching her thin hands to the blaze and watching Ann Eliza fill the kettle and set 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 custard pie from the cupboard and put it by her sister's plate. “You do like that, don't you? Miss Mellins sent it down to me this morning. She had her aunt from Brooklyn to dinner. Ain't it funny 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 the same wondering stare, and then, as of old, poured herself out the first 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 the cupboard. With her back to the room she said: “The what-not? Why, you see, dearie, living here all alone by myself it only made one more 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 to sell any household possession, she showed no surprise at her sister'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.”