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.

A few days later Mr. Ramy appeared with a suggestion which enchanted Evelina. He had gone the day before to see his friend, Mrs. Hochmuller, who lived in the outskirts of Hoboken, and Mrs. Hochmuller had proposed that on the following Sunday he should bring the Bunner sisters to spend the day with her.

“She's got a real garden, you know,” Mr. Ramy explained, “wid trees and a real summer-house to set in; and hens and chickens too. And it's an elegant sail over on de ferry-boat.”

The proposal drew no response from Ann Eliza. She was still oppressed by the recollection of her interminable Sunday in the Park; but, obedient to Evelina's imperious glance, she finally faltered out an acceptance.

The Sunday was a very hot one, and once on the ferry-boat Ann Eliza revived at the touch of the salt breeze, and the spectacle of the crowded waters; but when they reached the other shore, and stepped out on the dirty wharf, she began to ache with anticipated weariness. They got into a street-car, and were jolted from one mean street to another, till at length Mr. Ramy pulled the conductor's sleeve and they got out again; then they stood in the blazing sun, near the door of a crowded beer-saloon, waiting for another car to come; and that carried them out to a thinly settled district, past vacant lots and narrow brick houses standing in unsupported solitude, till they finally reached an almost rural region of scattered cottages and low wooden buildings that looked like village “stores.” Here the car finally stopped of its own accord, and they walked along a rutty road, past a stone-cutter's yard with a high fence tapestried with theatrical advertisements, to a little red house with green blinds and a garden paling. Really, Mr. Ramy had not deceived them. Clumps of dielytra and day-lilies bloomed behind the paling, and a crooked elm hung romantically over the gable of the house.

At the gate Mrs. Hochmuller, a broad woman in brick-brown merino, met them with nods and smiles, while her daughter Linda, a flaxen-haired girl with mottled red cheeks and a sidelong stare, hovered inquisitively behind her. Mrs. Hochmuller, leading the way into the house, conducted the Bunner sisters the way to her bedroom. Here they were invited to spread out on a mountainous white featherbed the cashmere mantles under which the solemnity of the occasion had compelled them to swelter, and when they had given their black silks the necessary twitch of readjustment, and Evelina had fluffed out her hair before a looking-glass framed in pink-shell work, their hostess led them to a stuffy parlour smelling of gingerbread. After another ceremonial pause, broken by polite enquiries and shy ejaculations, they were shown into the kitchen, where the table was already spread with strange-looking spice-cakes and stewed fruits, and where they presently found themselves seated between Mrs. Hochmuller and Mr. Ramy, while the staring Linda bumped back and forth from the stove with steaming dishes.

To Ann Eliza the dinner seemed endless, and the rich fare strangely unappetizing. She was abashed by the easy intimacy of her hostess's voice and eye. With Mr. Ramy Mrs. Hochmuller was almost flippantly familiar, and it was only when Ann Eliza pictured her generous form bent above his sick-bed that she could forgive her for tersely addressing him as “Ramy.” During one of the pauses of the meal Mrs. Hochmuller laid her knife and fork against the edges of her plate, and, fixing her eyes on the clock-maker's face, said accusingly: “You hat one of dem turns again, Ramy.”

“I dunno as I had,” he returned evasively.

Evelina glanced from one to the other. “Mr. Ramy has been sick,” she said at length, as though to show that she also was in a position to speak with authority. “He's complained very frequently of headaches.”

“Ho!—I know him,” said Mrs. Hochmuller with a laugh, her eyes still on the clock-maker. “Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Ramy?”

Mr. Ramy, who was looking at his plate, said suddenly one word which the sisters could not understand; it sounded to Ann Eliza like “Shwike.”

Mrs. Hochmuller laughed again. “My, my,” she said, “wouldn't you think he'd be ashamed to go and be sick and never dell me, me that nursed him troo dat awful fever?”

“Yes, I should,” said Evelina, with a spirited glance at Ramy; but he was looking at the sausages that Linda had just put on the table.

When dinner was over Mrs. Hochmuller invited her guests to step out of the kitchen-door, and they found themselves in a green enclosure, half garden, half orchard. Grey hens followed by golden broods clucked under the twisted apple-boughs, a cat dozed on the edge of an old well, and from tree to tree ran the network of clothes-line that denoted Mrs. Hochmuller's calling. Beyond the apple trees stood a yellow summer-house festooned with scarlet runners; and below it, on the farther side of a rough fence, the land dipped down, holding a bit of woodland in its hollow. It was all strangely sweet and still on that hot Sunday afternoon, and as she moved across the grass under the apple-boughs Ann Eliza thought of quiet afternoons in church, and of the hymns her mother had sung to her when she was a baby.

Evelina was more restless. She wandered from the well to the summer-house and back, she tossed crumbs to the chickens and disturbed the cat with arch caresses; and at last she expressed a desire to go down into the wood.

“I guess you got to go round by the road, then,” said Mrs. Hochmuller. “My Linda she goes troo a hole in de fence, but I guess you'd tear your dress if you was to dry.”

“I'll help you,” said Mr. Ramy; and guided by Linda the pair walked along the fence till they reached a narrow gap in its boards. Through this they disappeared, watched curiously in their descent by the grinning Linda, while Mrs. Hochmuller and Ann Eliza were left alone in the summer-house.

Mrs. Hochmuller looked at her guest with a confidential smile. “I guess dey'll be gone quite a while,” she remarked, jerking her double chin toward the gap in the fence. “Folks like dat don't never remember about de dime.” And she drew out her knitting.

Ann Eliza could think of nothing to say.

“Your sister she thinks a great lot of him, don't she?” her hostess continued.

Ann Eliza's cheeks grew hot. “Ain't you a teeny bit lonesome away out here sometimes?” she asked. “I should think you'd be scared nights, all alone with your daughter.”

“Oh, no, I ain't,” said Mrs. Hochmuller. “You see I take in washing—dat's my business—and it's a lot cheaper doing it out here dan in de city: where'd I get a drying-ground like dis in Hobucken? And den it's safer for Linda too; it geeps her outer de streets.”

“Oh,” said Ann Eliza, shrinking. She began to feel a distinct aversion for her hostess, and her eyes turned with involuntary annoyance to the square-backed form of Linda, still inquisitively suspended on the fence. It seemed to Ann Eliza that Evelina and her companion would never return from the wood; but they came at length, Mr. Ramy's brow pearled with perspiration, Evelina pink and conscious, a drooping bunch of ferns in her hand; and it was clear that, to her at least, the moments had been winged.

“D'you suppose they'll revive?” she asked, holding up the ferns; but Ann Eliza, rising at her approach, said stiffly: “We'd better be getting home, Evelina.”

“Mercy me! Ain't you going to take your coffee first?” Mrs. Hochmuller protested; and Ann Eliza found to her dismay that another long gastronomic ceremony must intervene before politeness permitted them to leave. At length, however, they found themselves again on the ferry-boat. Water and sky were grey, with a dividing gleam of sunset that sent sleek opal waves in the boat's wake. The wind had a cool tarry breath, as though it had travelled over miles of shipping, and the hiss of the water about the paddles was as delicious as though it had been splashed into their tired faces.

Ann Eliza sat apart, looking away from the others. She had made up her mind that Mr. Ramy had proposed to Evelina in the wood, and she was silently preparing herself to receive her sister's confidence that evening.

But Evelina was apparently in no mood for confidences. When they reached home she put her faded ferns in water, and after supper, when she had laid aside her silk dress and the forget-me-not bonnet, she remained silently seated in her rocking-chair near the open window. It was long since Ann Eliza had seen her in so uncommunicative a mood.

The following Saturday Ann Eliza was sitting alone in the shop when the door opened and Mr. Ramy entered. He had never before called at that hour, and she wondered a little anxiously what had brought him.

“Has anything happened?” she asked, pushing aside the basketful of buttons she had been sorting.

“Not's I know of,” said Mr. Ramy tranquilly. “But I always close up the store at two o'clock Saturdays at this season, so I thought I might as well call round and see you.”

“I'm real glad, I'm sure,” said Ann Eliza; “but Evelina's out.”

“I know dat,” Mr. Ramy answered. “I met her round de corner. She told me she got to go to dat new dyer's up in Forty-eighth Street. She won't be back for a couple of hours, har'ly, will she?”

Ann Eliza looked at him with rising bewilderment. “No, I guess not,” she answered; her instinctive hospitality prompting her to add: “Won't you set down jest the same?”

Mr. Ramy sat down on the stool beside the counter, and Ann Eliza returned to her place behind it.

“I can't leave the store,” she explained.

“Well, I guess we're very well here.” Ann Eliza had become suddenly aware that Mr. Ramy was looking at her with unusual intentness. Involuntarily her hand strayed to the thin streaks of hair on her temples, and thence descended to straighten the brooch beneath her collar.

“You're looking very well to-day, Miss Bunner,” said Mr. Ramy, following her gesture with a smile.

“Oh,” said Ann Eliza nervously. “I'm always well in health,” she added.

“I guess you're healthier than your sister, even if you are less sizeable.”

“Oh, I don't know. Evelina's a mite nervous sometimes, but she ain't a bit sickly.”

“She eats heartier than you do; but that don't mean nothing,” said Mr. Ramy.

Ann Eliza was silent. She could not follow the trend of his thought, and she did not care to commit herself farther about Evelina before she had ascertained if Mr. Ramy considered nervousness interesting or the reverse.

But Mr. Ramy spared her all farther indecision.

“Well, Miss Bunner,” he said, drawing his stool closer to the counter, “I guess I might as well tell you fust as last what I come here for to-day. I want to get married.”

Ann Eliza, in many a prayerful midnight hour, had sought to strengthen herself for the hearing of this avowal, but now that it had come she felt pitifully frightened and unprepared. Mr. Ramy was leaning with both elbows on the counter, and she noticed that his nails were clean and that he had brushed his hat; yet even these signs had not prepared her!

At last she heard herself say, with a dry throat in which her heart was hammering: “Mercy me, Mr. Ramy!”

“I want to get married,” he repeated. “I'm too lonesome. It ain't good for a man to live all alone, and eat noding but cold meat every day.”

“No,” said Ann Eliza softly.

“And the dust fairly beats me.”

“Oh, the dust—I know!”

Mr. Ramy stretched one of his blunt-fingered hands toward her. “I wisht you'd take me.”

Still Ann Eliza did not understand. She rose hesitatingly from her seat, pushing aside the basket of buttons which lay between them; then she perceived that Mr. Ramy was trying to take her hand, and as their fingers met a flood of joy swept over her. Never afterward, though every other word of their interview was stamped on her memory beyond all possible forgetting, could she recall what he said while their hands touched; she only knew that she seemed to be floating on a summer sea, and that all its waves were in her ears.

“Me—me?” she gasped.

“I guess so,” said her suitor placidly. “You suit me right down to the ground, Miss Bunner. Dat's the truth.”

A woman passing along the street paused to look at the shop-window, and Ann Eliza half hoped she would come in; but after a desultory inspection she went on.

“Maybe you don't fancy me?” Mr. Ramy suggested, discountenanced by Ann Eliza's silence.

A word of assent was on her tongue, but her lips refused it. She must find some other way of telling him.

“I don't say that.”

“Well, I always kinder thought we was suited to one another,” Mr. Ramy continued, eased of his momentary doubt. “I always liked de quiet style—no fuss and airs, and not afraid of work.” He spoke as though dispassionately cataloguing her charms.

Ann Eliza felt that she must make an end. “But, Mr. Ramy, you don't understand. I've never thought of marrying.”

Mr. Ramy looked at her in surprise. “Why not?”

“Well, I don't know, har'ly.” She moistened her twitching lips. “The fact is, I ain't as active as I look. Maybe I couldn't stand the care. I ain't as spry as Evelina—nor as young,” she added, with a last great effort.

“But you do most of de work here, anyways,” said her suitor doubtfully.

“Oh, well, that's because Evelina's busy outside; and where there's only two women the work don't amount to much. Besides, I'm the oldest; I have to look after things,” she hastened on, half pained that her simple ruse should so readily deceive him.

“Well, I guess you're active enough for me,” he persisted. His calm determination began to frighten her; she trembled lest her own should be less staunch.

“No, no,” she repeated, feeling the tears on her lashes. “I couldn't, Mr. Ramy, I couldn't marry. I'm so surprised. I always thought it was Evelina—always. And so did everybody else. She's so bright and pretty—it seemed so natural.”

“Well, you was all mistaken,” said Mr. Ramy obstinately.

“I'm so sorry.”

He rose, pushing back his chair.

“You'd better think it over,” he said, in the large tone of a man who feels he may safely wait.

“Oh, no, no. It ain't any sorter use, Mr. Ramy. I don't never mean to marry. I get tired so easily—I'd be afraid of the work. And I have such awful headaches.” She paused, racking her brain for more convincing infirmities.

“Headaches, do you?” said Mr. Ramy, turning back.

“My, yes, awful ones, that I have to give right up to. Evelina has to do everything when I have one of them headaches. She has to bring me my tea in the mornings.”

“Well, I'm sorry to hear it,” said Mr. Ramy.

“Thank you kindly all the same,” Ann Eliza murmured. “And please don't—don't—” She stopped suddenly, looking at him through her tears.

“Oh, that's all right,” he answered. “Don't you fret, Miss Gunner. Folks have got to suit themselves.” She thought his tone had grown more resigned since she had spoken of her headaches.

For some moments he stood looking at her with a hesitating eye, as though uncertain how to end their conversation; and at length she found courage to say (in the words of a novel she had once read): “I don't want this should make any difference between us.”

“Oh, my, no,” said Mr. Ramy, absently picking up his hat.

“You'll come in just the same?” she continued, nerving herself to the effort. “We'd miss you awfully if you didn't. Evelina, she—” She paused, torn between her desire to turn his thoughts to Evelina, and the dread of prematurely disclosing her sister's secret.

“Don't Miss Evelina have no headaches?” Mr. Ramy suddenly asked.

“My, no, never—well, not to speak of, anyway. She ain't had one for ages, and when Evelina is sick she won't never give in to it,” Ann Eliza declared, making some hurried adjustments with her conscience.

“I wouldn't have thought that,” said Mr. Ramy.

“I guess you don't know us as well as you thought you did.”

“Well, no, that's so; maybe I don't. I'll wish you good day, Miss Bunner”; and Mr. Ramy moved toward the door.

“Good day, Mr. Ramy,” Ann Eliza answered.

She felt unutterably thankful to be alone. She knew the crucial moment of her life had passed, and she was glad that she had not fallen below her own ideals. It had been a wonderful experience; and in spite of the tears on her cheeks she was not sorry to have known it. Two facts, however, took the edge from its perfection: that it had happened in the shop, and that she had not had on her black silk.

She passed the next hour in a state of dreamy ecstasy. Something had entered into her life of which no subsequent empoverishment could rob it: she glowed with the same rich sense of possessorship that once, as a little girl, she had felt when her mother had given her a gold locket and she had sat up in bed in the dark to draw it from its hiding-place beneath her night-gown.

At length a dread of Evelina's return began to mingle with these musings. How could she meet her younger sister's eye without betraying what had happened? She felt as though a visible glory lay on her, and she was glad that dusk had fallen when Evelina entered. But her fears were superfluous. Evelina, always self-absorbed, had of late lost all interest in the simple happenings of the shop, and Ann Eliza, with mingled mortification and relief, perceived that she was in no danger of being cross-questioned as to the events of the afternoon. She was glad of this; yet there was a touch of humiliation in finding that the portentous secret in her bosom did not visibly shine forth. It struck her as dull, and even slightly absurd, of Evelina not to know at last that they were equals.