There was no dew that night, and the moon was full. It was after nine o’clock when Thomas left her at the gate in the fence which separated Evelina Adams’s garden from the field, and watched her disappear between the flowers. The moon shone full on the garden. Evelina walked as it were over a silver dapple, which her light gown seemed to brush away and dispel for a moment. The bushes stood in sweet mysterious clumps of shadow. Evelina had almost reached the house, and was close to the great althea bush, which cast a wide circle of shadow, when it seemed suddenly to separate and move into life. The elder Evelina stepped out from the shadow of the bush. “Is that you, Evelina?” she said, in her soft melancholy voice, which had in it a nervous vibration. “Yes, Cousin Evelina.” The elder Evelina’s pale face, drooped about with gray curls, had an unfamiliar, almost uncanny, look in the moonlight, and might have been the sorrowful visage of some marble nymph, lovelorn, with unceasing grace. “Who--was with you?” she asked. “The minister,” replied young Evelina. “Did he meet you?” “He met me in the lane, Cousin Evelina.” “And he walked home with you across the field?” “Yes, Cousin Evelina.” Then the two entered the house, and nothing more was said about the matter. Young Evelina and Thomas Merriam agreed that their affection was to be kept a secret for a while. “For,” said young Evelina, “I cannot leave Cousin Evelina yet a while, and I cannot have her pestered with thinking about it, at least before another spring, when she has the garden fairly growing again.” “That is nearly a whole year; it is August now,” said Thomas, half reproachfully, and he tightened his clasp of Evelina’s slender fingers.