"Didn't you know she was out there? She moved out a month after we did. She wasn't bad to me, and I think she tried to keep him straight——but Linda——"

　　"Linda——?"

　　"Well, when I kep' getting worse, and he was always off, for days at a time, the doctor had me sent to a hospital."

　　"A hospital? Sister——sister!"

　　"It was better than being with him; and the doctors were real kind to me. After the baby was born I was very sick and had to stay there a good while. And one day when I was laying there Mrs. Hochmuller came in as white as a sheet, and told me him and Linda had gone off together and taken all her money. That's the last I ever saw of him." She broke off with a laugh and began to cough again.

　　Ann Eliza tried to persuade her to lie down and sleep, but the rest of her story had to be told before she could be soothed into consent. After the news of Ramy's flight she had had brain fever, and had been sent to another hospital where she stayed a long time——how long she couldn't remember. Dates and days meant nothing to her in the shapeless ruin of her life. When she left the hospital she found that Mrs. Hochmuller had gone too. She was penniless, and had no one to turn to. A lady visitor at the hospital was kind, and found her a place where she did housework; but she was so weak they couldn't keep her. Then she got a job as waitress in a down-town lunch-room, but one day she fainted while she was handing a dish, and that evening when they paid her they told her she needn't come again.

　　"After that I begged in the streets"——(Ann Eliza's grasp again grew tight)——"and one afternoon last week, when the matinees was coming out, I met a man with a pleasant face, something like Mr. Hawkins, and he stopped and asked me what the trouble was. I told him if he'd give me five dollars I'd have money enough to buy a ticket back to New York, and he took a good look at me and said, well, if that was what I wanted he'd go straight to the station with me and give me the five dollars there. So he did——and he bought the ticket, and put me in the cars."

　　Evelina sank back, her face a sallow wedge in the white cleft of the pillow. Ann Eliza leaned over her, and for a long time they held each other without speaking.

　　They were still clasped in this dumb embrace when there was a step in the shop and Ann Eliza, starting up, saw Miss Mellins in the doorway.

　　"My sakes, Miss Bunner! What in the land are you doing? Miss Evelina——Mrs. Ramy——it ain't you?"

　　Miss Mellins's eyes, bursting from their sockets, sprang from Evelina's pallid face to the disordered supper table and the heap of worn clothes on the floor; then they turned back to Ann Eliza, who had placed herself on the defensive between her sister and the dress-maker.

　　"My sister Evelina has come back——come back on a visit. she was taken sick in the cars on the way home——I guess she caught cold——so I made her go right to bed as soon as ever she got here."

　　Ann Eliza was surprised at the strength and steadiness of her voice. Fortified by its sound she went on, her eyes on Miss Mellins's baffled countenance: "Mr. Ramy has gone west on a trip——a trip connected with his business; and Evelina is going to stay with me till he comes back."

　　XII

　　What measure of belief her explanation of Evelina's return obtained in the small circle of her friends Ann Eliza did not pause to enquire. Though she could not remember ever having told a lie before, she adhered with rigid tenacity to the consequences of her first lapse from truth, and fortified her original statement with additional details whenever a questioner sought to take her unawares.

　　But other and more serious burdens lay on her startled conscience. For the first time in her life she dimly faced the awful problem of the inutility of self-sacrifice. Hitherto she had never thought of questioning the inherited principles which had guided her life. Self-effacement for the good of others had always seemed to her both natural and necessary; but then she had taken it for granted that it implied the securing of that good. Now she perceived that to refuse the gifts of life does not ensure their transmission to those for whom they have been surrendered; and her familiar heaven was unpeopled. She felt she could no longer trust in the goodness of God, and there was only a black abyss above the roof of Bunner Sisters.

　　But there was little time to brood upon such problems. The care of Evelina filled Ann Eliza's days and nights. The hastily summoned doctor had pronounced her to be suffering from pneumonia, and under his care the first stress of the disease was relieved. But her recovery was only partial, and long after the doctor's visits had ceased she continued to lie in bed, too weak to move, and seemingly indifferent to everything about her.

　　At length one evening, about six weeks after her return, she said to her sister: "I don't feel's if I'd ever get up again."

　　Ann Eliza turned from the kettle she was placing on the stove. She was startled by the echo the words woke in her own breast.

　　"Don't you talk like that, Evelina! I guess you're on'y tired out——and disheartened."

　　"Yes, I'm disheartened," Evelina murmured.

　　A few months earlier Ann Eliza would have met the confession with a word of pious admonition; now she accepted it in silence.

　　"Maybe you'll brighten up when your cough gets better," she suggested.

　　"Yes——or my cough'll get better when I brighten up," Evelina retorted with a touch of her old tartness.

　　"Does your cough keep on hurting you jest as much?"

　　"I don't see's there's much difference."

　　"Well, I guess I'll get the doctor to come round again," Ann Eliza said, trying for the matter-of-course tone in which one might speak of sending for the plumber or the gas-fitter.

　　"It ain't any use sending for the doctor——and who's going to pay him?"

　　"I am," answered the elder sister. "Here's your tea, and a mite of toast. Don't that tempt you?"

　　Already, in the watches of the night, Ann Eliza had been tormented by that same question——who was to pay the doctor?——and a few days before she had temporarily silenced it by borrowing twenty dollars of Miss Mellins. The transaction had cost her one of the bitterest struggles of her life. She had never borrowed a penny of any one before, and the possibility of having to do so had always been classed in her mind among those shameful extremities to which Providence does not let decent people come. But nowadays she no longer believed in the personal supervision of Providence; and had she been compelled to steal the money instead of borrowing it, she would have felt that her conscience was the only tribunal before which she had to answer. Nevertheless, the actual humiliation of having to ask for the money was no less bitter; and she could hardly hope that Miss Mellins would view the case with the same detachment as herself. Miss Mellins was very kind; but she not unnaturally felt that her kindness should be rewarded by according her the right to ask questions; and bit by bit Ann Eliza saw Evelina's miserable secret slipping into the dress-maker's possession.