She raised the
window-sash gently, leaned out upon the soft spring night, and
listened again.
Far down the street, from the purlieus of the Town Quay, her ear
caught a murmur of voices--of voices and happy subdued laughter.
The maidens of Troy were embarking; and to-morrow would be May
morning.
Miss Marty sighed. How long was it since she had observed May
morning and its rites? The morrow, too, if the Vicar and the Major
were right in their calculations, would usher in the Millennium.
But again, what was the Millennium to her? Could it bring back her
youth?
She heard the boats draw near and go by. The houses to the left hid
them from her: but she leaned out, hearkening to the soft plash of
oars, the creak of thole-pins, the girls' voices in hushed chorus
practising the simple native harmonies they would lift aloud as they
returned after sunrise. She recognised the tune, too; the old tune
of "The Padstow Hobby-horse,"--
"Unite and unite, and let us all unite,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
And whither we are going we will all go in white
In the merry merry morning of May.
"Rise up, Master--, and joy you betide,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
And blithe is the bride lays her down by your side
In the merry merry morning of May."
Hushed though the voices were, each word fell distinct on her ear as
the boats drew near and passed up the tideway.
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