day in the window and looks out over the garden and the naked bushes
and the withered flower-stalks. She used not to be so, but would read
her Bible and good books, and busy herself somewhat over fine
needle-work, and at one time she was compiling a little floral book,
giving a list of the flowers, and poetical selections and sentiments
appropriate to each. That was her pastime for three winters, and it
is now nearly done; but she has given that up, and all the rest, and
sits there in the window and grows older and feebler until spring. It
is only I who can divert her mind, by reading aloud to her and
singing; and sometimes I paint the flowers she loves the best on
card-board with water-colors. I have a poor skill in it, but Cousin
Evelina can tell which flower I have tried to represent, and it
pleases her greatly. I have even seen her smile. No, I cannot leave
her, nor even pester her with telling her before another spring, and
you must wait, Thomas," said young Evelina.

And Thomas agreed, as he was likely to do to all which she proposed
which touched not his own sense of right and honor. Young Evelina
gave Thomas one more kiss for his earnest pleading, and that night
wrote out the tale in her journal. "It may be that I overstepped the
bounds of maidenly decorum," wrote Evelina, "but my heart did so
entreat me," and no blame whatever did she lay upon Thomas.

Young Evelina opened her heart only to her journal, and her cousin
was told nothing, and had little cause for suspicion. Thomas Merriam
never came to the house to see his sweetheart; he never walked home
with her from meeting. Both were anxious to avoid village gossip,
until the elder Evelina could be told.

Often in the summer evenings the lovers met, and strolled hand in