to pass on, and Thomas spoke out
bravely. "Is your cousin, Miss Adams, well?" said he.

"She is pretty well, I thank you, sir."

"I've been wanting to--call," he began; then he hesitated again. His
handsome young face was blushing crimson.

Evelina's own color deepened. She turned her face away. "Cousin
Evelina never sees callers," she said, with grave courtesy; "perhaps
you did not know. She has not for a great many years."

"Yes, I did know it," returned Thomas Merriam; "that's the reason I
haven't called."

"Cousin Evelina is not strong," remarked the young girl, and there
was a savor of apology in her tone.

"But--" stammered Thomas; then he stopped again. "May I--has she any
objections to--anybody's coming to see you?"

Evelina started. "I am afraid Cousin Evelina would not approve," she
answered, primly. Then she looked up in his face, and a girlish
piteousness came into her own. "I am very sorry," she said, and there
was a catch in her voice.

Thomas bent over her impetuously. All his ministerial state fell from
him like an outer garment of the soul. He was young, and he had seen
this girl Sunday after Sunday. He had written all his sermons with
her image before his eyes, he had preached to her, and her only, and
she had come between his heart and all the nations of the earth in
his prayers. "Oh," he stammered out, "I am afraid you can't be very
happy living there the way you do. Tell me--"

Evelina turned her face away with sudden haughtiness. "My cousin
Evelina is very kind to me, sir," she said.

"But--you must be lonesome with nobody--of your own age--to speak
to," persisted Thomas, confusedly.

"I never cared much for youthful company. It is getting dark; I must
be going," said Evelina. "I wish you good-evening, sir."

"Sha'n't I--walk home with you?" asked Thomas, falteringly.

"It isn't necessary, thank you, and I don't think Cousin Evelina
would approve," she replied, primly; and her light dress fluttered
away into the dusk and out of sight like the pale wing of a moth.

Poor Thomas Merriam walked on with his head in a turmoil. His heart
beat loud in his ears. "I've made her mad with me," he said to
himself, using the old rustic school-boy vernacular, from which he
did not always depart in his thoughts, although his ministerial
dignity guarded his conversations. Thomas Merriam came of a simple
homely stock, whose speech came from the emotions of the heart, all
unregulated by the usages o