I know that I
shall be fondest of that poor girl I told you about, of her and of the
Ida Ludington who built this new Hilton thirty years ago."

"And now," she said, as they finished looking over the pictures and
talking about them, "I have introduced you to all who have borne our name
from your day to mine. As to those who came before you, the baby Ida and
the child Ida, you remember them even better than I do, no doubt. I would
give anything if I had their pictures, but the blessed art of photography
was not then invented. These keepsakes are all I have of them." And
taking Ida over to another part of the room, she showed her a cradle,
several battered dolls, fragments of a child's pewter tea-set, and a
miscellaneous collection of toys.

They took up and handled tenderly pairs of little shoes, socks nearly as
long as one's fingers, and baby dresses scarcely bigger than a man's
mittens. Lying near were the shoes, and gowns, and hoods, now grown a
little larger, of the child, with the coral necklace, and first precious
ornaments, the dog's-eared spelling-books, and the rewards of merit,
testifying of early school-days.

"I can barely remember the baby and this little girl," said Miss
Ludington, "but I fancy they will be the pets of all the rest of us up
there, don't you?"

After Miss Ludington had shown Ida all the contents of the room, and they
were about to leave it, she said to the girl, "And now what do you think
of us other Ida Ludingtons, who have followed you, present company not
excepted? Confess that you think the acquaintances I have introduced to
you were scarcely worth the making. You need not hesitate to say so; it
is quite my own opinion. We have amounted to very little, taken
altogether."

"Oh, no!" said Ida, quietly; "I do not think that; I would not say that;
but your lives have all been so different from what I have always dreamed
my life as a woman would be."

"You have a right to be disappointed in us," said Miss Ludington. "We
have, indeed, not turned out as you expected--as you had a right to
expect." But Ida would not admit in any derogatory sense that she was
disappointed.

"You are sweeter, and kinder, and gentler, than I supposed I ever could
be," she said; "but you see, I thought, of course, I should be married,
and have children, and that all would be so different from what it has
been; but not that I should ever be better than you are, or nearly so
sweet. Oh, no!"

"Thank you, my