"Oh, I'll tend it," she interrupted eagerly. "You won't even have to touch it."
The man shook his head.
"'T won't do, ma 'am,—'t won't, really, now. I'm sorry, but the boss won't stand it."
"Won't stand it!—not even for flowers!" she gasped.
"No, ma'am"—the janitor's tone was firm but regretful. A queer feeling of sympathy came over him for this gentle little woman on the top floor whom he had always liked. "There hain't none of the tenants no business with them yards; he said so."
"Oh!" said Mrs. Dalton, "I—I'll go then." And she picked up the trowel and rose to her feet.
She passed the janitor without a word, her head held high, and her eyes looking straight before her; but once in the seclusion of the halls, her head drooped, and her eyes rained tears that rolled down her cheeks unceasingly all the way to the top floor.
It was that night that Caleb brought out the paper and pen to write the letter which would lease the farm for another six months. Twice he dipped his pen in the ink, and paused with no word written. Finally he spoke.
"I—I'm going to give him some hints, Sarah. He won't know how to run some of the things, I 'm sure. If he should plant the meadow lot to potatoes, now, it—"
"And, Caleb," cut in Sarah, "be sure and send word to his wife about the roses; if she don't spray 'em real early, the bugs and worms will get an awful start. Caleb, don't you remember how lovely that crimson rambler was last year?"