Indeed, this garden was her joy, and the flowers that grew there were for the most part of her own planting--primroses, snowdrops, violets, and, in the shadow of the trees, long hartstongue ferns.
For a while Peter walked up and down the central path, and, as it chanced, Margaret, who also had risen early and not slept too well, looking through her window curtains, saw him wandering there, and wondered what he did at this hour; also, why he was dressed in the clothes he wore on Sundays and holidays.

Perhaps, she thought, his weekday garments had been torn or muddied in last night's fray.

Then she fell to thinking how bravely he had borne him in that fray.

She saw it all again; the great red-headed rascal tossed up and whirled to the earth by his strong arms; saw Peter face that gleaming steel with nothing but a staff; saw the straight blows fall, and the fellow go reeling to the earth, slain with a single stroke.
Ah! her cousin, Peter Brome, was a man indeed, though a strange one, and remembering certain things that did not please her, she shrugged her ivory shoulders, turned red, and pouted.

Why, that Spaniard had said more civil words to her in an hour than had Peter in two years, and he was handsome and noble-looking also; but then the Spaniard was--a Spaniard, and other men were--other men, whereas Peter was--Peter, a creature apart, one who cared as little for women as he did for trade.
Why, then, if he cared for neither women nor trade, did he stop here?
she wondered.