“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.”