"Rise up, Mistress--, all in your smock of silk,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
And all your body under as white as any milk
In the merry merry morning of May."
The voices faded away up the river. Only the lilt of the song came
back to her now, but memory supplied the words. Had they not been
sung under her window years ago?
"Rise up, Mistress Marty, all out of your bed,
For summer is a-come in to-day--
Your chamber shall be spread with the white rose and red
In the merry merry morning of May.
"O where be the maidens that here now should sing?
For summer is a-come in to-day--
They be all in the meadows the flowers gathering,
In the merry merry morning of May."
What magic was there in this artless ditty that kept Miss
Marty lingering awhile with moist eyes ere she closed the
window-sash?
"Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!"
Heavens! Whose voice was that, calling up hoarsely from the shadows?
She peered out, but could see nobody. Suddenly her maiden modesty
took alarm. What possessed her to be standing here exposed, and
exposing the interior of her lighted bed-chamber to view from the
street? She ran back in a flurry and blew out the candles; then,
returning, put up a hand to draw down the window-sash.
"Wh'st! Miss Mar-ty!"
"Gracious goodness!" After a moment's hesitation she craned out
timorously.
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