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That year also she sent back to Virginia for flower-seed and shrub and plants the same old familiar ones that had grown on her father's lawn, in the garden, about the walls, along the water some of which had been bought over from England: the flags, the lilies, honeysuckles, calacanthus, snowdrops, roses all of them.
She wore a flower in her hair, and in her hand she held a calacanthus bud. She was rather small, with a petulant sort of beauty, but I did not think that she could be compared with Guinea, for all of Alf's raving over her. Her cheeks were dimpled, and well she knew it, for she smiled whenever anything was said, and when no word had been spoken she smiled at the silence.
Over all was the faint violet haze of the season, hanging above the gay old garden like a delicate effluvium from autumns long decayed. "There aren't many old-time gardens left," said Nicholas regretfully, "but I like this one best of all. I always think of you in the midst of it." "Yes, we used to gather calacanthus blossoms and trade them for taffy at school. The bushes are almost all dead now.
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