“Just why are you telling me all this?” he demanded roughly.

She returned his look quietly.

“Because,” she said, “you have been trying to guess my secret for a long time and you have succeeded; haven’t you?”

He was speechless.

“You have been wondering about me, all along.  I could see that, of course.  I suppose everybody in Brookville has been wondering and—­and talking.  I meant to be frank and open about it—­to tell right out who I was and what I came to do.  But—­somehow—­I couldn’t....  It didn’t seem possible, when everybody—­you see I thought it all happened so long ago people would have forgotten.  I supposed they would be just glad to get their money back.  I meant to give it to them—­all, every dollar of it.  I didn’t care if it took all I had....  And then—­I heard you last night when you crossed the library.  I hoped—­you would ask me why—­but you didn’t.  I thought, first, of telling Mrs. Daggett; she is a kind soul.  I had to tell someone, because he is coming home soon, and I may need—­help.”

Her eyes were solemn, beseeching, compelling.

His anger died suddenly, leaving only a sort of indignant pity for her unfriended youth.

“You are—­” he began, then stopped short.  A painter was swiftly descending his ladder, whistling as he came.

“My name,” she said, without appearing to notice, “is Lydia Orr Bolton.  No one seems to remember—­perhaps they didn’t know my mother’s name was Orr.  My uncle took me away from here.  I was only a baby.  It seemed best to—­”

“Where are they now?” he asked guardedly.

The painter had disappeared behind the house.  But he could hear heavy steps on the roof over their heads.

“Both are dead,” she replied briefly.  “No one knew my uncle had much money; we lived quite simply and unpretentiously in South Boston.  They never told me about the money; and all those years I was praying for it!  Well, it came to me—­in time.”

His eyes asked a pitying question.

“Oh, yes,” she sighed.  “I knew about father.  They used to take me to visit him in the prison.  Of course I didn’t understand, at first.  But gradually, as I grew older, I began to realize what had happened—­to him and to me.  It was then I began to make plans.  He would be free, sometime; he would need a home.  Once he tried to escape, with some other men.  A guard shot my father; he was in the prison-hospital a long time.  They let me see him then without bars between, because they were sure he would die.”

“For God’s sake,” he interrupted hoarsely.  “Was there no one—?”

She shook her head.

“That was after my aunt died:  I went alone.  They watched me closely at first; but afterward they were kinder.  He used to talk about home—­always about home.  He meant this house, I found.  It was then I made up my mind to do anything to get the money....  You see I knew he could never be happy here unless the old wrongs were righted first.  I saw I must do all that; and when, after my uncle’s death, I found that I was rich—­really rich, I came here as soon as I could.  There wasn’t any time to lose.”