“But this time mother really seemed to be in earnest,” said Winona meditatively, as she helped to put up the stumps.

Mrs. Woodward had been left a widow three years before this story opens.  She was a fair, fragile little woman, still pretty, and pathetically helpless.  She had been accustomed to lean upon her husband, and now, for lack of firmer support, she leaned upon Winona.  Winona was young to act as prop, and though it flattered her sense of importance, it had put a row of wrinkles on her girlish forehead.  At fifteen she seemed much older than Percy at sixteen.  No one ever dreamt of taking Percy seriously; he was one of those jolly, easy-going, happy-go-lucky, unreliable people who saunter through life with no other aim than to amuse themselves at all costs.  To depend upon him was like trusting to a boat without a bottom.  Though nominally the eldest, he had little more sense of responsibility than Ernie, the youngest.  It was Winona who shouldered the family burdens.

The Woodwards had always lived at Highfield, and in their opinion it was the most desirable residence in the whole of Rytonshire.  The house was old enough to be picturesque, but modern enough for comfort.  Its quaint gables, mullioned windows and Cromwellian porch were the joy of photographers, while the old-fashioned hall, when the big log fire was lighted, would be hard to beat for coziness.  The schoolroom, on the ground floor, had a separate side entrance on to the lawn, leading through a small ante-room where boots and coats and cricket bats and tennis rackets could be kept; the drawing-room had a luxurious ingle nook with cushioned seats, and all the bedrooms but two had a southern aspect.  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.  That her mother had written to consult the oracle she was well aware, for she had been sent to post the letter.  She had an instinctive apprehension that the answer would prove a turning-point in her career.