“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 girl, about as old as my Nellie.  I’ve often wondered what became of her.  Some of her relatives took her away, after her mother was buried.  Poor little thing—­her ma dead an’ her pa shut up in prison—...  Oh! yes; this was the parlor....  My! to think how the years have gone by, and me as slim as a match then.  Now that’s what I call a handsome mantel; and ain’t the marble kept real pretty?  There was all-colored rugs and a waxed floor in here, and a real old-fashioned sofa in that corner and a mahogany table with carved legs over here, and long lace curtains at the windows.  I see they’ve fixed the ceilings as good as new and scraped all the old paper off the walls.  There used to be some sort of patterned paper in here.  I can’t seem to think what color it was.”

“I found quite a fresh piece behind the door,” said Lydia.  “See; I’ve put all the good pieces from the different rooms together, and marked them.  I was wondering if Mr. Daggett could go to Boston for me?  I’m sure he could match the papers there.  You could go, too, if you cared to.”

“To Boston!” exclaimed Mrs. Daggett; “me and Henry?  Why, Miss Orr, what an idea!  But Henry couldn’t no more leave the post office—­he ain’t never left it a day since he was appointed postmaster.  My, no! ’twouldn’t do for Henry to take a trip clear to Boston.  And me—­I’m so busy I’d be like a fly trying t’ get off sticky paper....  I do hate to see ’em struggle, myself.”

She followed the girl up the broad stair, once more safe and firm, talking steadily all the way.

There were four large chambers, their windows framing lovely vistas of stream and wood and meadow, with the distant blue of the far horizon melting into the summer sky.  Mrs. Daggett stopped in the middle of the wide hall and looked about her wonderingly.

“Why, yes,” she said slowly.  “You certainly did show good sense in buying this old house.  They don’t build them this way now-a-days.  That’s what I said to Mrs. Deacon Whittle—­ You know some folks thought you were kind of foolish not to buy Mrs. Solomon Black’s house down in the village.  But if you’re going to live here all alone, dearie, ain’t it going to be kind of lonesome—­all these big rooms for a little body like you?”

“Tell me about it, please,” begged Lydia.  “I—­I’ve been wondering which room was his.”

“You mean Andrew Bolton’s, I s’pose,” said Mrs. Daggett reluctantly.  “But I hope you won’t worry any over what folks tells you about the day he was taken away.  My! seems as if ’twas yesterday.”

She moved softly into one of the spacious, sunny rooms and stood looking about her, as if her eyes beheld once more the tragedy long since folded into the past.