“Um—hum; I ain't surprised. Chris sells paint as well as tea and tinware. He's got the key, has he?”
“I suppose he has. I ought to have gone up and got it from him.”
“Well, I wouldn't fret about it. Of course we can't go in the front door like the minister and weddin' company, but the kitchen door was unfastened last night and I presume likely it's that way now. You haven't any objection to the kitchen door, have you? When old Laban lived here it's a safe bet he never used any other. Cur'ous old critter, he was.”
They entered by the kitchen door. The inside of the house, like the outside, was transformed by day and sunshine. The rooms downstairs were large and well lighted, and, in spite of their emptiness, they seemed almost cheerful.
“Whose furniture is this?” asked Thankful, referring to the stove and chair and sofa in the dining-room.
“Laban's; that is, it used to be. When he died he didn't have chick nor child nor relation, so fur's anybody knew, and his stuff stayed right here. There wa'n't very much of it. That is—” He hesitated.
“But, there must have been more than this,” said Thankful. “What, became of it?”
Captain Obed shook his head. “You might ask Chris Badger,” he suggested. “Chris sells antiques on the side—the high side.”
“Did old Mr. Eldredge live here ALL alone?” asked Emily.
“Yup. And died all alone, too. Course I don't mean he was alone all the time he was sick. Most of that time he was out of his head and folks could stay with him, but he came to himself occasional and when he did he'd fire 'em out because feedin' 'em cost money. He wa'n't what you'd call generous, Laban wa'n't.”