“I ’d thought—” Simeon hesitated, “I ’d thought we might put some one on, for the winter.”
“Rent it?” asked John.
“No—we can’t rent it till spring; Nobody would want it now, but we could put some one on.” He waited a minute. “There ’s your friend—Tomlinson—”
John leaned forward, his face alight—“He’d like it, sir. He used to live on a farm—in Scotland.”
“I judged as much,” said Simeon drily. “He can have it, rent free, till spring. Then the road will talk about terms—we shan’t be hard on him.” He said the last words with a little gulp. He was looking down at the paper trembling in his hands.
“He will like it,” said John heartily. “And it will be good for the little Tomlinsons—There are two children, you know?”
“I don’t know anything about them,” said Simeon wearily. “I don’t care—whether there are children—or not. He can have the farm, if he wants it, rent free.” He looked about for his hat. “I ’m going home,” he said. “I’m tired.”
The freshness of his sleep had left him. He was old and haggard once more. And John, as he handed him his hat, was struck anew by the misery in the face.
“I am going in a minute, sir. Don’t you want me to walk along with you?”
“No, no. I ’m all right. Stay and write your letter. You’d better send it tonight.”