“That’s so, Lois,” beamed Mrs. Daggett. “The most of folks is about like that. Why, I rec’lect once, Henry brought me up a red-handled broom from th’ store. My! it wa’n’t no time b’fore he was cleaned right out of red-handled brooms. Nobody wanted ’em natural color, striped, or blue. Henry, he says to me, ‘What did you do to advertise them red-handled brooms, Abby?’ ‘Why, papa,’ says I, ‘I swept off my stoop and the front walk a couple of times, that’s all.’ ‘Well,’ he says, ‘broom-handles is as catching as measles, if you only get ’em th’ right color!’ ... Git-ap, Dolly!” “Well, did you _ever!_” breathed Miss Daggett excitedly, leaning out of the buggy to gaze upon the scene of activity displayed on the further side of the freshly-pruned hedge which divided Miss Lydia Orr’s property from the road: “Painters and carpenters and masons, all going at once! And ain’t that Jim Dodge out there in the side yard talking to her? ’Tis, as sure as I’m alive! I wonder what _he’s_ doing? Go right in, Abby!” “I kind of hate to drive Dolly in on that fresh gravel,” hesitated Mrs. Daggett. “He’s so heavy on his feet he’ll muss it all up. Mebbe I’d better hitch out in front.” “She sees us, Abby; go on in!” commanded Miss Daggett masterfully. “I guess when it comes to that, her gravel ain’t any better than other folks’ gravel.” Thus urged, Mrs. Daggett guided the sulky brown horse between the big stone gateposts and brought him to a standstill under the somewhat pretentious _porte-cochère_ of the Bolton house. Lydia Orr was beside the vehicle in a moment, her face bright with welcoming smiles. “Dear Mrs. Daggett,” she said, “I’m so glad you’ve come. I’ve been wanting to see you all day. I’m sure you can tell me—” “You’ve met my husband’s sister, Miss Lois Daggett, haven’t you, Miss Orr? She’s the lady that made that beautiful drawn-in mat you bought at the fair.” Miss Orr shook hands cordially with the author of the drawn-in mat. “Come right in,” she said. “You’ll want to see what we’re doing inside, though nothing is finished yet.” She led the way to a small room off the library, its long French windows opening on a balcony. “This room used to be a kind of a den, they tell me; so I’ve made it into one, the first thing, you see.” There was a rug on the floor, a chair or two and a high mahogany desk which gave the place a semblance of comfort amid the general confusion. Miss Lois Daggett gazed about with argus-eyed curiosity. “I don’t know as I was ever in this room, when Andrew Bolton lived here,” she observed, “but it looks real homelike now.” “Poor man! I often think of him,” said kindly Mrs. Daggett. “’Twould be turrible to be shut away from the sunshine f’r even one year; but poor Andrew Bolton’s been closed up in State’s prison fer—l’ me see, it mus’ be goin’ on—” “It’s fifteen years, come fall, since he got his sentence,” stated the spinster. “His time must be ’most up.”