"She's stuck up," they
said, and felt, curiously enough, a certain pride in the fact when
they met her in the street and she ducked her long chin stiffly into
the folds of her black shawl by way of salutation.
When Evelina was fifteen years old this single woman died, and the
village women went to her funeral, and bent over her lying in a last
helpless dignity in her coffin, and stared with awed freedom at her
cold face. After that Evelina was sent away to school, and did not
return, except for a yearly vacation, for six years to come. Then she
returned, and settled down in her old home to live out her life, and
end her days in a perfect semblance of peace, if it were not peace.
Evelina never had any young school friend to visit her; she had
never, so far as any one knew, a friend of her own age. She lived
alone with her father and three old servants. She went to meeting,
and drove with the Squire in his chaise. The coach was never used
after his wife's death, except to carry Evelina to and from school.
She and the Squire also took long walks, but they never exchanged
aught but the merest civilities of good-days and nods with the
neighbors whom they met, unless indeed the Squire had some matter of
business to discuss. Then Evelina stood aside and waited, her fair
face drooping gravely aloof.
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