For years old Battershall, the gardener, had dug there in solitude--day in, day out--and had grown his vegetables, hedged in from all human intercourse, nor grumbling at his lot.
Corona, exploring the precincts, had discovered this kitchen garden, found it to her mind, and thereafter made free of it with the cheerfullest _insouciance_.

The dark tunnel, to begin with, put her in mind of some adventure in a fairy tale she could not recall; but it opened of a sudden and enchantingly upon sunshine and beds of onions, parsley, cabbages, with pale yellow butterflies hovering.
Old Battershall, too, though taciturn, was obviously not displeased by her visits.

He saw that while prying here and there--especially among the parsley beds, for what reason he could not guess--the child stole no fruit, did no harm.

She trampled nothing.

She lifted no leaf to harm it.