“Have you always lived there?”
“No,” said Cassy, “we used to live in a lovely little house near the city, and there were morning-glories growing over the porch.” She looked at John.
“By the way,” said that worthy, “I told you I’d see about the morning-glories. I believe I’ve some seed in the tool-house. You’re welcome to ’em, and if you plant ’em they’ll be likely to grow, and you can train ’em over your window. Have you a good yard?”
“No,” Cassy said; “we have three rooms on the top floor, one big room and two little ones. Mother likes it up where we are because it is nearer the sky, and there is no one above us.”
“Sensible woman,” said John, nodding approvingly.
“And you’ve no yard? Well, you can plant the seeds in a box on the window-sill, unless you like to have a garden in the common yard.”
“Oh, we can’t. Billy Miles won’t let us.” And Cassy told the story of her treasured morning-glory, and of its destruction. Rock and John listened gravely. “And I was so sorry,” said Cassy, “for I had always wanted to see a morning-glory, because mother tells how they grew over our porch where we used to live. We would be there now if papa had lived.”
“How long since he died?” Rock asked, sympathetically.
“Six years. I wasn’t three years old, and Jerry was about five. Papa got hurt on the railroad, you know, and he never got well.”
“Yes,” spoke up Jerry. “And mother said some people said she ought to have lots of money from the railroad, because it was their fault, but she tried and they put her off, and she couldn’t afford to have a lawyer, so she just had to give up.”