were especially
disturbed by this last, as they might otherwise have gained many
interesting particulars by proxy.

Monday was the day set for the burial. Early in the morning old
Thomas Merriam walked feebly up the road to the Squire's house.
People noticed him as he passed. "How terribly fast he's grown old
lately!" they said. He opened the gate which led into the Squire's
front yard with fumbling fingers, and went up the walk to the front
door, under the Corinthian pillars, and raised the brass knocker.

Evelina opened the door, and started and blushed when she saw him.
She had been crying; there were red rings around her blue eyes, and
her pretty lips were swollen. She tried to smile at Thomas's father,
and she held out her hand with shy welcome.

"I want to see her," the old man said, abruptly.

Evelina started, and looked at him wonderingly. "I--don't believe--I
know who you mean," said she. "Do you want to see Mrs. Loomis?"

"No; I want to see her."

"_Her?_"

"Yes, _her_."

Evelina turned pale as she stared at him. There was something strange
about his face. "But--Cousin Evelina," she faltered--"she--didn't
want-- Perhaps you don't know: she left special directions that
nobody was to look at her."

"I _want to see her_," said the old man, and Evelina gave way. She
stood aside for him to enter, and led him into the great north
parlor, where Evelina Adams lay in her mournful state. The shutters
were closed, and one on entering could distinguish nothing but that
long black shadow in the middle of the room. Young Evelina opened a
shutter a little way, and a slanting shaft of spring sunlight came in
and shot athwart the coffin. The old man tiptoed up and leaned over
and looked at the dead woman. Evelina Adams had left further
instructions about her funeral, which no one understood, but which
were faithfully carried out. She wished, she had said, to be attired
for her long sleep in a certain rose-colored gown, laid away in rose
leaves and lavender in a certain chest in a certain chamber. There
were also silken hose and satin shoes with it, and these were to be
put on, and a wrought lace tucker fastened with a pearl brooch.

It was the costume she had worn one Sabbath day back in her youth,
when she had looked across the meeting-house and her eyes had met
young Thomas Merriam's; but nobody knew nor remembered; even young
Evelina thought it was simply a vagary of her dead cousin's.

"It don't seem to me d