erhangs the parson's gate. There is a
disembodied skylark voice somewhere high up in the mare's-tail clouds
which veil the earth from too much heat and brightness; and the young
heart is unhardened and unspotted from the world.

And oh! oho! the elysium of the summer mornings, when Dick and Paul,
and the cousins, male and female, rose at four and strayed with their
Devonian angel through lanes and fields as far as Beacon Hargate,
gathering wild flowers and calling at the farm for milk. There are
no more such flowers, there is no more such air, no more such merry
sunshine; there is no such nectar any more as foamed in the shining
pail.

On the way from Church Vale to Beacon Hargate there is a brook, which
now runs ink and smells of evil, and in those days flowed so clear that
you could count the parcel-coloured pebbles at the bottom, through water
which was sometimes pellucid as diamond, and sometimes of a cairngorm
colour. The arched pathway over it, with its weather-stained, square-cut
timber guards at either side, was called June Bridge, and above and
below the bridge, in curved hollows of the banks where the bed of the
brook was earthy, water-lilies floated, sliding with the stream, and
tugging back on their oozy anchorage. Paul found his goddess leaning on
this bridge, watching the lilies, and began to hum whilst he was yet out
of hearing,

'May, on June bridge, in July weather,' and to make a song in his head.

'Can ee swim, Paul?' asked his goddess.

'Oh yes,' said Paul, 'I can swim right enough. Want them lilies?' She
nodded, smiling. 'I'll get 'em for you.'

He climbed the bridge, and dropped into the meadow.

'I'll wait for ee,' said May, and sauntered on out of sight.

Paul stripped and dived, came up with a shake of the head, and swam
down-stream. He reached the water-lilies in a dozen strokes, laid a hand
on the stalk of one in passing, and tugged at it. The stem proved to be
tougher than he had guessed, and he dropped his feet to find bottom. He
was out of his depth, but he set both hands low and twisted at the stem.
This took him under water, but he came up smiling triumph, threw his
prize into the meadow, and paddled round the group on an outlook for the
finest blooms. One in the very middle of the floating bed was fresh and
flawless, and he swam for it. A number of cold weedy things were round
his legs at once, and before he knew it he was thickly meshed. The slimy
touch sent an unpleasant thril