“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. “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?”