iding panels in the walls and hiding-places in the chimneys.
The garden exactly matched the house, and so did the flowers that grew
in it--the pink daisies, "boy's love," sweet-williams, and hollyhocks,
all of which might be picked as well as looked at. Visitors never had
a chance of stealing the fruit, because they were always invited to eat
it as soon as it was ripe, or even before, if they preferred.

There were a lawn, and a paddock, and a shrubbery, the last so much
overgrown that it resembled a little forest, and often did duty for a
miniature "merry Sherwood," when the present of some bows and arrows
caused playing at Robin Hood and his men to become a popular pastime.
Lastly, there was the stable, where Jessamine, the little fat pony, and
the low basket-carriage were lodged; and above was the loft, a charming
place, which had been in turn a ship, a fortress, a robbers' cave, and
a desert island. Up there were loads of hay and bundles of straw,
which could be built up or rolled about in; the place was always in a
romantic twilight; there were old, deserted spiders' webs hanging to
the roof, looking like shops to let, which never did any business; and
the ascent and descent of the perpendicular ladder from the ground
floor was quite an adventure in itself. To picture a ship on which one
had to go aloft to enter the cabin would seem rather a difficult task;
but a child's imagination is the richest in the world, and though
Valentine and his sisters had grown rather too old for this style of
amusement, every fresh visit to Brenlands was made brighter by
recollections of the many happy ones which had preceded it, and of all
the fun and frolic they had already enjoyed there.

But best and foremost of all the charming things which made the place
so bright and attractive was Queen Mab herself. She never said that
little people ought to be seen and not heard; and there never was a
person so easy to tell one's troubles to, or so hard to keep a secret
from, as Aunt Mabel. No one in the world could ever have told stories
as well as she did. "The Brave Tin Soldier" and "The Ugly Duckling"
were the favourites, and came in time to be always associated with
Brenlands. They had been told so often that the listeners always knew
exactly what was coming next, and had the narrator put the number of
metal brethren at two dozen instead of twenty-five, or missed out a
single stage of the duckling's wanderings, she would have been