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