friends. Amy was giving a dinner the next evening in her honour; and to
let the cook and the waitress have a rest on the preceding night, Joe
took Amy and Ethel out to dine in a café. His business had gone well
that week and Joe was a genial husband. They had a sea-food supper and
later he took them to a play. When they came home, Ethel went to her
room, for she felt very tired. It was not long before she was asleep.

She was awakened by Joe, half dressed.

"Amy is sick!" he said sharply. "Go in and help her, will you? I'll
try to get a doctor!"

On Amy's bed, a little later, Ethel saw a face so changed from the one
of a few hours before, that she felt her heart jump into her throat.
Amy's face was ugly and queer, distorted by frequent spasms of pain.
But worse was the terror in her eyes.

"Ethel, I think I'm dying!" she cried. "Something I ate--it poisoned
me!" There was a violent catch in her breath.

"Amy! Why, you poor little darling!" Ethel held her sister tight, asked
quick anxious questions and did things to relieve her, but with little
or no success. It seemed hours till Joe came back. With him was a
doctor, who made an examination and then took Joe into the hall. Ethel
followed anxiously. She heard the doctor questioning Joe, and she heard
him say:

"I'm afraid it's ptomaine.

"What does _that_ mean?" Joe fiercely inquired. But before Ethel could