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TREATS OF A HANDKERCHIEF.
Running through Beckley Park, clear from the chalk, a little stream gave light and freshness to its pasturage.

Near where it entered, a bathing-house of white marble had been built, under which the water flowed, and the dive could be taken to a paved depth, and you swam out over a pebbly bottom into sun-light, screened by the thick-weeded banks, loose-strife and willow-herb, and mint, nodding over you, and in the later season long-plumed yellow grasses.

Here at sunrise the young men washed their limbs, and here since her return home English Rose loved to walk by night.

She had often spoken of the little happy stream to Evan in Portugal, and when he came to Beckley Court, she arranged that he should sleep in a bed-room overlooking it.