strangely moody. Sometimes she would display a gaiety that was
almost feverish, and shortly after, perhaps, he would surprise her in
tears. But she always declared that she was not unhappy; and, unable to
conceive of any reason why she should be, Paul was fain to conceive that
she was merely nervous.

The absorption of the lovers in each other's society naturally left Miss
Ludington more often alone than before; but Ida was very far from
neglecting her for her lover. Her care for her since her sickness was
such as a daughter might give to a beloved and invalid mother. It was an
attention such as the lonely old lady had never enjoyed in her life, or
looked for, and would have been most grateful to have had from any one,
but how much more from Ida!

The village street was a rarely romantic promenade on moonlight evenings,
and the twanging of Paul's guitar was often heard till after midnight
from the meeting-house steps, which were a favourite resort with the
lovers. Those steps, in the Hilton of Miss Ludington's girlhood, had been
a very popular locality with sentimental couples, and she well remembered
certain short-lived romances of Ida's first life on earth with which they
had been associated. One night, when the young people had lingered there
later than usual, Miss Ludington put on her shawl and stepped across the
green to warn them that it was time for even lovers to be abed.

As she approached, Paul was seated on the lower step, touching his
guitar, and facing Ida, who sat on the step above leaning back against a
pillar. A blotch of moonlight fell upon her dreamy, upturned face. One
hand lay in her lap, and the fingers of the other were idly playing with
a tress of hair that had fallen over her bosom. How well Miss Ludington
remembered that attitude, and even the habit of playing with her hair
which Ida had in the days so long gone by.

She stood in the shadow watching her till Paul ceased playing. Then she
advanced and spoke to them.

"I have been standing here looking at you, my sister," she said. "I have
been trying to imagine how strangely it must come over you that forty
years ago you sat here as you sit here now, just as young and beautiful
then as now, and Paul not then born, even his parents children at that
time."

Ida bent down her head and replied, in scarcely audible tones, "I do not
like to think of those days."

"And I don't like to think of them," echoed Paul, with a curious
sensation of jea