"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.
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