“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.