Ann Eliza's face burned. "I--yes, I guess I'll have to," she
stammered, stooping to pick up a spool of cotton which had rolled
to the floor. A sudden heart-throb stretched the seams of her flat
alpaca bosom, and a pulse leapt to life in each of her temples.

That night, long after Evelina slept, Ann Eliza lay awake in
the unfamiliar silence, more acutely conscious of the nearness of
the crippled clock than when it had volubly told out the minutes.
The next morning she woke from a troubled dream of having carried
it to Mr. Ramy's, and found that he and his shop had vanished; and
all through the day's occupations the memory of this dream
oppressed her.

It had been agreed that Ann Eliza should take the clock to be
repaired as soon as they had dined; but while they were still at
table a weak-eyed little girl in a black apron stabbed with
innumerable pins burst in on them with the cry: "Oh, Miss Bunner,
for mercy's sake! Miss Mellins has been took again."

Miss Mellins was the dress-maker upstairs, and the weak-eyed
child one of her youthful apprentices.

Ann Eliza started from her seat. "I'll come at once. Quick,
Evelina, the cordial!"

By this euphemistic name the sisters designated a bottle of
cherry brandy, the last of a dozen inherited from their
grandmother, which they kept locked in their cupboard against such
emergencies. A moment later, cordial in hand, Ann Eliza was