Mrs. Daggett was sitting by the window gazing dreamily out, when Lydia returned after witnessing the triumphant departure of the promoter of Famous People.

“It kind of brings it all back to me,” said Mrs. Daggett, furtively wiping her eyes. “It's going t' look pretty near's it used to. Only I remember Mis' Bolton used to have a flower garden all along that stone wall over there; she was awful fond of flowers. I remember I gave her some roots of pinies and iris out of our yard, and she gave me a new kind of lilac bush—pink, it is, and sweet! My! you can smell it a mile off when it's in blow.”

“Then you knew—the Bolton family?”

The girl's blue eyes widened wistfully as she asked the question.

“Yes, indeed, my dear. And I want to tell you—just betwixt ourselves—that Andrew Bolton was a real nice man; and don't you let folks set you t' thinking he wa'n't. Now that you're going to live right here in this house, my dear, seems to me it would be a lot pleasanter to know that those who were here before you were just good, kind folks that had made a mistake. I was saying to Henry this morning: ‘I'm going to tell her some of the nice things folks has seemed to forget about the Boltons. It won't do any harm,’ I said. ‘And it'll be cheerfuller for her.’ Now this room we're sitting in—I remember lots of pleasant things about this room. 'Twas here—right at that desk—he gave us a check to fix up the church. He was always doing things like that. But folks don't seem to remember.”

“Thank you so much, dear Mrs. Daggett, for telling me,” murmured Lydia. “Indeed it will be—cheerfuller for me to know that Andrew Bolton wasn't always—a thief. I've sometimes imagined him walking about these rooms.... One can't help it, you know, in an old house like this.”

Mrs. Daggett nodded eagerly. Here was one to whom she might impart some of the secret thoughts and imaginings which even Maria Dodge would have called “outlandish”:

“I know,” she said. “Sometimes I've wondered if—if mebbe folks don't leave something or other after them—something you can't see nor touch; but you can sense it, just as plain, in your mind. But land! I don't know as I'd ought to mention it; of course you know I don't mean ghosts and like that.”

“You mean their—their thoughts, perhaps,” hesitated Lydia. “I can't put it into words; but I know what you mean.”

Mrs. Daggett patted the girl's hand kindly.

“I've come to talk to you about the wall papers, dearie; Henry thought mebbe you'd like to see me, seeing I don't forget so easy's some. This room was done in a real pretty striped paper in two shades of buff. There's a little of it left behind that door. Mrs. Bolton was a great hand to want things cheerful. She said it looked kind of sunshiny, even on a dark day. Poor dear, it fell harder on her than on anybody else when the crash came. She died the same week they took him to prison; and fer one, I was glad of it.”

Mrs. Daggett wiped her kind eyes.

“Mebbe you'll think it's a terrible thing for me to say,” she added hastily. “But she was such a delicate, soft-hearted sort of a woman: I couldn't help feelin' th' Lord spared her a deal of bitter sorrow by taking her away. My! It does bring it all back to me so—the house and the yard, and all. We'd all got used to seeing it a ruin; and now— Whatever put it in your head, dearie, to want things put back just as they were? Papa was telling me this morning you was all for restoring the place. He thinks 'twould be more stylish and up-to-date if you was to put new-style paper on the walls, and let him furnish it up for you with nice golden oak. Henry's got real good taste. You'd ought to see our sideboard he gave me Chris'mas, with a mirror and all.”

Having thus discharged her wifely duty, as it appeared to her, Mrs. Daggett promptly turned her back upon it.

“But you don't want any golden oak sideboards and like that in this house. Henry was telling me all about it, and how you were set on getting back the old Bolton furniture.”

“Do you think I could?” asked the girl eagerly. “It was all sold about here, wasn't it? And don't you think if I was willing to pay a great deal for it people would—”

“'Course they would!” cried Mrs. Daggett, with cheerful assurance. “They'd be tickled half to death to get money for it. But, you see, dearie, it's a long time ago, and some folks have moved away, and there's been two or three fires, and I suppose some are not as careful as others; still—”

The smile faded on the girl's lips.

“But I can get some of it back; don't you think I can? I—I've quite set my heart on—restoring the house. I want it just as it used to be. The old furniture would suit the house so much better; don't you think it would?”

Mrs. Daggett clapped her plump hands excitedly.

“I've just thought of a way!” she exclaimed. “And I'll bet it'll work, too. You know Henry he keeps th' post office; an' 'most everybody for miles around comes after their mail to th' store. I'll tell him to put up a sign, right where everybody will see; something like this: ‘Miss Lydia Orr wants to buy the old furniture of the Bolton house.’ And you might mention casual you'd pay good prices for it. 'Twas real good, solid furniture, I remember.... Come to think of it, Mrs. Bolton collected quite a lot of it right 'round here. She was a city girl when she married Andrew Bolton, an' she took a great interest in queer old things. She bought a big tall clock out of somebody's attic, and four-posted beds, the kind folks used to sleep in, an' outlandish old cracked china plates with scenes on 'em. I recollect I gave her a blue and white teapot, with an eagle on the side that belonged to my grandmother. She thought it was perfectly elegant, and kept it full of rose-leaves and spice on the parlor mantelpiece. Land! I hadn't thought of that teapot for years and years. I don't know whatever became of it.”

The sound of planes and hammers filled the silence that followed. Lydia was standing by the tall carved chair, her eyes downcast.

“I'm glad you thought of—that notice,” she said at last. “If Mr. Daggett will see to it for me—I'll stop at the office tomorrow. And now, if you have time, I'd so like you to go over the house with me. You can tell me about the wall papers and—”

Mrs. Daggett arose with cheerful alacrity.

“I'd like nothing better,” she declared. “I ain't been in the house for so long. Last time was the day of the auction; 'twas after they took the little girl away, I remember.... Oh, didn't nobody tell you? There was one child—a real, nice little girl. I forget her name; Mrs. Bolton used to call her Baby and Darling and like that. She was an awful pretty little g............