Even by standing on tip-toe she could not look over them, and she dared not try to raise the sash.
By-and-by a thought struck her.

She went back to her chair, lifted it, carried it to the window and climbed upon it; and this was no small feat or succession of feats, for as yet her thigh pained her, and fear held her half-paralysed.
What she looked upon was an oblong space enclosed by brick walls ten or twelve feet high, and divided by a lower wall--also of brick--into two parallelograms of unequal width.

Of these the wider was a gravelled yard, absolutely bare, in extent perhaps an acre; and here, in various knots and groups, were gathered some two dozen children.

Alongside of the yard and upon its left--that is to say, as Tilda guessed, between it and the canal--ran a narrower strip of kitchen garden, planted with leeks, cabbages, potatoes, and ending in a kind of shed--part glass-house, part out-house--built in lean-to fashion against the terminal wall, which overtopped it by several feet.

The children in the yard could not look into this garden, for the dividing wall reached far above their heads.
Tilda, too, had no eyes for the garden, after a first glance had assured her it was empty.