I was saying to Henry this
morning: 'I'm going to tell her some of the nice things folks has
seemed to forget about the Boltons. It won't do any harm,' I said.
'And it'll be cheerfuller for her.' Now this room we're sitting
in--I remember lots of pleasant things about this room. 'Twas
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.
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