BY PROSEN WATER That day by the banks of Prosen Water was one of Grizel's beautiful memories.

All the days when she thought he loved her became beautiful memories.
It was the time of reds and whites, for the glory of the broom had passed, except at great heights, and the wild roses were trooping in.
When the broom is in flame there seems to be no colour but yellow; but when the wild roses come we remember that the broom was flaunting.

It was not quite a lady, for it insisted on being looked at; while these light-hearted things are too innocent to know that there is anyone to look.

Grizel was sitting by the side of the stream, adorning her hat fantastically with roses red and white and some that were neither.
They were those that cannot decide whether they look best in white or red, and so waver for the whole of their little lives between the two colours; there are many of them, and it is the pathetic thing about wild roses.

She did not pay much heed to her handiwork.