always confided in the other when she supposed herself to have found
some slight favor in Thomas's sight; and, indeed, the young minister
could scarcely bow to one upon the street unless she flew to the
other with the news.

Thomas Merriam himself was aware of all this devotion on the part of
the young women of his flock, and it filled him with a sort of angry
shame. He could not have told why, but he despised himself for being
the object of their attention more than he despised them. His heart
sank at the idea of Evelina's discovering it. What would she think of
him if she knew all those young women haunted his house and lagged
after meeting on the chance of getting a word from him? Suppose she
should see their eyes upon his face in meeting time, and decipher
their half-unconscious boldness, as he had done against his will.
Once Evelina had looked at him, even as the older Evelina had looked
at his father, and all other looks of maidens seemed to him like
profanations of that, even although he doubted afterwards that he had
rightly interpreted it. Full it had seemed to him of that tender
maiden surprise and wonder, of that love that knows not itself, and
sees its own splendor for the first time in another's face, and flees
at the sight. It had happened once when he was coming down the aisle
after the sermon and Evelina had met him at the door of her pew. But
she had turned her head quickly, and her soft curls flowed over her
red cheek, and he doubted ever after if he had read the look aright.
When he had gotten the courage to speak to her, and she had met him
with the gentle coldness which she had learned of her lady aunt and
her teacher in Boston, his doubt was strong upon him. The next Sunday
he looked not her way at all. He even tried faithfully from day to
day to drive her image from his mind with prayer and religious
thoughts, but in spite of himself he would lapse into dreams about