As now the grey head and the golden head bent together over one picture
after another, Miss Ludington related all she could remember of the
history and personal peculiarities of the original.
"There is, really, not much to say about them," she said. "They lived
very quiet, uneventful lives, and to anybody but us would, doubtless,
seem entirely uninteresting persons. All wore black dresses, and had sad
faces, and all found in their thoughts of you the source at once of their
only consolation and their keenest sorrow. For they fully believed--think
of it!--fully and unquestionably believed that you were dead; more
hopelessly dead than if you were in your grave, dead, with no possibility
of resurrection."
"This is the one," she said, presently, as she took up the picture of a
woman of thirty-five, "who had the fortune left to her, which has come
down to me. I want you to like her. Next to you I think more of her than
I do of any of the rest. It was she who cut loose from the old life at
Hilton which had become so sour and sad, and built this new Hilton here,
where life has been so much calmer, and, on the whole, happier, than it
had got to be at home.
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