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.