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.

"Cai Tamblyn.

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