As for the big rambling garden, it was full of delightful old-world flowers that came up year after year: daffodils and violets and snow-flakes, and clumps of pinks, and orange lilies and Canterbury bells, and tall Michaelmas daisies, and ribbon grass and royal Osmunda fern, the sort of flowers that people used to pick in days gone by, put a paper frill round, and call a nosegay or a posy.

There was a lawn for tennis and cricket, a pond planted with irises and bulrushes, and a wild corner where crocuses and coltsfoot and golden aconite came up as they liked in the spring time.
Winona loved this garden with somewhat the same attachment that a French peasant bears for the soil upon which he has been reared.

She rejoiced in every yard of it.

To go away and resign it to others would be tragedy unspeakable.

The fear that Aunt Harriet might recommend the family to leave Highfield was sufficient to darken her horizon indefinitely.