"Most of them are simple souls, and thank heaven for it!"

His tone was fervently censorious.

She smiled understandingly.

"Perhaps I ought to tell you further that a rich man--not a
millionaire; but rich enough--actually did ask me to marry him, and I
refused."

"H'mph!"

"But," she added calmly, "I think I should have married him, if I had
not had money left me first--before he asked me, I mean. I knew all
along that what I had determined to do, I could do best alone."

He stared at her from under gathered brows. He still felt that
curious mixture of shame and anger burning hotly within.

"Just why are you telling me all this?" he demanded roughly.

She returned his look quietly.

"Because," she said, "you have been trying to guess my secret for a
long time and you have succeeded; haven't you?"

He was speechless.

"You have been wondering about me, all along. I could see that, of
course. I suppose everybody in Brookville has been wondering and--and
talking. I meant to be frank and open about it--to tell right out who
I was and what I came to do. But--somehow--I couldn't.... It didn't
seem possible, when everybody--you see I thought it all happened so
long ago people would have forgotten. I supposed they would be just
glad to get their money back. I meant to give it to them--all, every
dollar of it. I didn't care if it took all I had.... And then--I
heard you last night when you crossed the library. I hoped--you would
ask me why--but you didn't. I thought, first, of telling Mrs.
Daggett; she is a kind soul. I had to tell someone, because he is
coming home soon, and I may need--help."

Her eyes were solemn, beseeching, compelling.

His anger died suddenly, leaving only a sort of indignant pity for
her unfriended youth.

"You are--" he began, then stopped short. A painter was swiftly
descending his ladder, whistling as he came.

"My name," she said, without appearing to notice, "is Lydia Orr
Bolton. No one seems to remember--perhaps they didn't know my
mother's name was Orr. My uncle took me away from here. I was only a
baby. It seemed best to--"

"Where are they now?" he asked guardedly.

The painter had disappeared behind the house. But he could hear heavy
steps on the roof over their heads.

"Both are dead," she replied briefly. "No one knew my uncle had much
money; we lived quite simply and unpretentiously in South Boston.
They never told me about the money; and all those years I was praying