This was a longer way home for Lilac than across the fields, but she never thought of disputing Agnetta’s decision, and the cousins left the orchard by another gate which led into the garden. It was not a very tidy garden, and although some care had been bestowed on the vegetables, the flowers were left to come up where they liked and how they liked, and the grass plot near the house was rank and weedy. Nevertheless it presented a gay and flourishing appearance with its masses of polyanthus in full bloom, its tulips, and Turk’s head lilies, and lilac bushes. There was one particular bed close to the gate which had a neater appearance than the rest, and where the flowers grew in a well-ordered manner as though accustomed to personal attention. The edges of the turf were trimly clipped, and there was not a weed to be seen. It had a mixed border of forget-me-not and London pride.
“How pretty your flowers grow!” said Lilac, stopping to look at it with admiration.
“Oh, that’s Peter’s bed,” said Agnetta carelessly, snapping off some blossoms. “He’s allays mucking at it in his spare time—not that he’s got much, there’s so much to do on the farm.”
The house was now in front of them, and a little to the left the various, coloured roofs of the farm buildings, some tiled with weather-beaten bricks, some thatched, some tarred, and the bright yellow straw ricks standing here and there. Between these buildings and the house was a narrow lane, generally ankle-deep in mud, which led into the highroad.
Lilac was very fond of the farmyard and all the creatures in it. She stopped at the gate and looked over at a company of small black pigs routing about in the straw.
“Oh, Agnetta!” she exclaimed, “you’ve got some toiny pigs; what peart little uns they are!”
“I can’t abide pigs,” said Agnetta with a toss of her curl-papered head; “no more can’t Bella, we neither of us can’t. Nasty, vulgar, low-smelling things.”
Lilac felt that hers must be a vulgar taste as Agnetta said so, but still she did like the little pigs, and would have been glad to linger near them. It was often puzzling to her that Agnetta called so many things common and vulgar, but she always ended by thinking that it was because she was so superior.
“Here, Peter!” exclaimed Agnetta suddenly. A boy in leather leggings and a smock appeared at the entrance of the barn, and came tramping across the straw towards them at her call. “Just take this into the kitchen,” said his sister in commanding tones. “Now,” turning to Lilac, “we can go t’other way across the fields. The lane’s all in a muck.”
Peter slouched away with the basin in his hand. He was a heavy-looking youth, and so shy that he seldom raised his eyes from the ground.