If he was surly, Miss Jane seemed not to mind it.
Her glance even softened a moment as she followed his retreating form.
But now she was revelling amongst the flowers, which she seemed to love passionately.

Phibbs wheeled her slowly along the narrow paths between the beds, and she stopped frequently to fondle a blossom or pull away a dead leaf or twig from a bush.

The roses were magnificent, in spite of the old gardener's croaking, and the sun was warm and grateful and the hum of the bees musical and sweet.
"It's hard to die and leave all this, Phibbs," said the old woman, a catch in her voice.

"But it's got to be done." "Not for a while yet, I hope, Miss Jane." "It won't be long, Phibbs.

But I must try to live until my nieces come, and I can decide which of them is most worthy to care for the old place when I am gone." "Yes, Miss." "I've heard from two of them, already.