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 decent to lay away anybody dressed so," said
Mrs. Martha Loomis; "but of course last wishes must be respected."

The two Loomis girls said they were thankful nobody was to see the
departed in her rose-colored shroud.

Even old Thomas Merriam, leaning over poor Evelina, cold and dead in
the garb of her youth, did not remember it, and saw no meaning in it.