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.
"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.