It was several days before the village people discovered who she was. The information had to be obtained, by a process like mental thumbscrewing, 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, many a time, Mrs. Martha Loomis and her girls try the doors of the Adams house, scudding around angrily from front, to side and back, and knock and knock again, but with no admittance. “Evelina she won’t let none of ’em in more’n once a week,” the neighbors said. It was odd that, although they had deeply resented Evelina’s seclusion on their own accounts, they were rather on her side in this matter, and felt a certain delight when they witnessed a crestfallen retreat of the widow and her daughters. “I don’t s’pose she wants them Loomises marchin’ in on her every minute,” they said. The new Evelina was not seen much with the other cousins, and she made no acquaintances in the village. Whether she was to inherit all the Adams property or not, she seemed, at any rate, heiress to all the elder Evelina’s habits of life. She worked with her in the garden, and wore her old girlish gowns, and kept almost as close at home as she. She often, however, walked abroad in the early dusk, stepping along in a grave and stately fashion, as the elder Evelina had used to do, holding her skirts away from the dewy roadside weeds, her face showing out in the twilight like a white flower, as if it had a pale light of its own.