"John the beau was walking home, When he met with Sally Dover, He kissed her once, he kissed her twice, And he kissed her three times over!"

Thus the heedless children with their lips, but their little hearts probably beat to the even simpler words:  “I’m having a holiday!  Having a holiday!”

More staidly, and almost unheard by their time-muffled ears, a voice, nevertheless, sang to the housewives, telling each her copper and silver was the brightest in the town, and adding, perhaps, little gusts of memory that half hurt, half pleased, of how nimbly she had danced at the Flora in years gone by, and how fair she had looked....

The staid married men smiled to themselves, and would not have acknowledged that within them something seemed to chuckle:  “I’m not so old, after all; I’m not so old, after all....”

Frankly, the hearts of the young men nudged hopefully against their ribs, calling out:  “I’m going to dance with Her!  I’m going to dance with Her!  And perhaps ... for I always was lucky!  I always was lucky!”

But who shall say what lilting voice, timid-bold and sly-sincere, whispered to the maidens, beating out its syllables against the new stays so tightly laced for the occasion?  Perhaps the words of the children’s doggerel, with a name or so altered, met the moment without need of further change....

And Loveday’s heart, as she walked the three miles from the fishing village to Bugletown, sang to her of joy and hope and triumph.

When she reached the Market House, she found the band ready to strike up the famous tune, while the mayor, his chain of office about his neck, stood conversing with the ladies and gentlemen who were to lead the dance.  For, as is but fitting, the couples at the Flora follow each other according to their social precedence, though all may join who choose, providing only that the females, be they gentry or tradespeople, wear white, and the men their best broadcloth and Sunday hats.

Of all who had gathered for the dance there was none more highly placed than Miss Flora Le Pettit, and none as fair to see.  She stood supreme in the sunshine and her beauty, her white muslin robes swelling round her like the petals of some full-blown rose, her white sash streaming over them, the white ribands that decked her hat of fine Dunstable straw flowing down to her shoulders and mingling with her auburn curls.  Even the countless tiny bows that adorned her dress (as though they were a cloud of butterflies drawn to alight upon it by its freshness) were of white satin.  Everything about her save her little sandalled feet danced already—­the brim of the wide hat that waved above her dancing eyes, the flounces and floating ends of her attire which the soft breeze stirred, the corners of her smiling mouth, the dimple which came and went behind the curls that nodded by her cheek.  What vision can have been fairer than that presented by Flora Le Pettit upon Flora Day?  “None, none, none,” thought eager Loveday, as she edged through the crowd and caught sight of her divinity.  None ... and yet that sight caused Loveday a strange clutching in her breast.