The lavender satin, deepening into purple in the folds, swept in a rich circle over the knees of the young girl in the Squire’s pew.  She folded her little hands, which were encased in Evelina’s cream-colored silk mitts, over it, and looked up at the young minister, and listened to his sermon with a grave and innocent dignity, as Evelina had done before her.  Perhaps the resemblance between this young girl and the young girl of the past was more one of mien than aught else, although the type of face was the same.  This girl had the same fine sharpness of feature and delicately bright color, and she also wore her hair in curls, although they were tied back from her face with a black velvet ribbon, and did not veil it when she drooped her head, as Evelina’s used to do.

The people divided their attention between her and the new minister.  Their curiosity goaded them in equal measure with their spiritual zeal.  “I can’t wait to find out who that girl is,” one woman whispered to another.

The girl herself had no thought of the commotion which she awakened.  When the service was over, and she walked with a gentle maiden stateliness, which seemed a very copy of Evelina’s own, out of the meeting-house, down the street to the Squire’s house, and entered it, passing under the stately Corinthian pillars, with a last purple gleam of her satin skirts, she never dreamed of the eager attention that followed her.

It was several days before the village people discovered who she was.  The information had to be obtained, by a process like mental thumb-screwing, from the old man who tended Evelina’s garden, but at last they knew.  She was the daughter of a cousin of Evelina’s on the father’s side.  Her name was Evelina Leonard; she had been named for her father’s cousin.  She had been finely brought up, and had attended a Boston school for young ladies.  Her mother had been dead many years, and her father had died some two years ago, leaving her with only a very little money, which was now all gone, and Evelina Adams had invited her to live with her.  Evelina Adams had herself told the old gardener, seeing his scant curiosity was somewhat awakened by the sight of the strange young lady in the garden, but he seemed to have almost forgotten it when the people questioned him.

“She’ll leave her all her money, most likely,” they said, and they looked at this new Evelina in the old Evelina’s perfumed gowns with awe.

However, in the space of a few months the opinion upon this matter was divided.  Another cousin of Evelina Adams’s came to town, and this time an own cousin—­a widow in fine black bombazine, portly and florid, walking with a majestic swell, and, moreover, having with her two daughters, girls of her own type, not so far advanced.  This woman hired one of the village cottages, and it was rumored that Evelina Adams paid the rent.  Still, it was considered that she was not very intimate with these last relatives.  The neighbors watched, and saw,