It was done by the lights.

Her robe was really of white chiffon, and as pink lights had made it appear in rosy tints, so now a deep yellow light gave the effect of sultry sunlight.
The music, and likewise the rhythm of the dance, were soft and languorous as a July noon.

Limply hung the draperies, slowly waved the graceful arms, and at the end, Patty sank slowly, gently, down on a mound beneath the trees, and, her head pillowed on her arm, closed her eyes, while the violin notes faded to silence.
Knowing better than to applaud her, the spectators watched in silence.
A moment, and then a clear bugle-like note sounded.

Patty started up, passed her hand across her brow, opened her eyes, smiled slowly, and more and more merrily, then sprang up, and as the lights made her costume appear to be of the gold and russet red of autumn, she burst into a wild woodland dance such as a veritable Dryad might have performed.

The music was rich, triumphant, and the whole atmosphere was filled with the glory of the crown of the year.