ABSTRACT
If only she was let alone, Viola could make herself very happy in the gardens and quaint old surroundings of her home. She had the poetic faculty of drawing out the secrets of common things. The cucumber-frames, the old garden; the tumble-down red-roofed sheds where Thomas potted his geraniums, the apple-house smelling so deliciously, and the conservatory, with its warm sweet scents of earth and flowers; not one of these but gave her exquisite pleasure.
