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.

"I ain't going to tell you anything sad," she said under her breath.
"It's best forgot. This was their room; ain't it nice an' cheerful? I
like a southwest room myself. And 'tain't a bit warm here, what with
the breeze sweeping in at the four big windows and smelling sweet of
clover an' locust blooms. And ain't it lucky them trees didn't get
blown over last winter?"

She turned abruptly toward the girl.

"Was you thinking of sleeping in this room, dearie? It used to have
blue and white paper on it, and white paint as fresh as milk. It'd be
nice and pleasant for a young lady, I should think."

Lydia shook her head.

"Not," she said slowly, "if it was _his_ room. I think I'd
rather--which was the little girl's room? You said there was a
child?"

"Now, I'm real sorry you feel that way," sympathized Mrs. Daggett,