Downstairs, on each side of the big front door was a square-yard patch of puny, straggling grass; and it was these two bits of possibilities that put a happy thought into Sarah's head. For three days she said nothing, but she fell into the way of going often in and out of that door, and always her eyes were hungrily fixed on one or the other of those squares. On the fourth day she bought a trowel and some flower seeds and set resolutely to work. She had dug the trowel into the earth four times, and was delightedly sniffing the odor from the moist earth when the janitor appeared. "Did ye lose something, ma'am?" he asked suspiciously. "Lose something?" laughed the woman. "Of course not! I've found something, William. I 've found a flower bed. I 'm going to have the prettiest one ever was." "Oh, come now," began the man, plainly disturbed, "that ain't going to do, you know. I'll have to--" "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?" Caleb nodded; his eyes were fixed on the wallpaper. "I--I wonder if this warm weather has made the leaves start out on it," resumed Sarah. "I hope not--you know we always have frosts up there." "Hm-m," murmured Caleb. There was a long silence; then Sarah drew a deep breath. "Caleb, do you s'pose it 'll get up to the front-chamber window this year--that rosebush, I mean?" "I don't know, Sarah." Caleb's eyes were still on the wall-paper. There was another long silence, broken this time by the children's entrance.