looked in her cheap white nuns-veiling gown, wearing a bunch of narcissi carelessly set in her hair and carrying a flowering hazel-wand in her hand, with which she beat time for her companions as they followed her bird-like carolling in the ‘Mayers’ Song.’  But just now all singing had ceased,—­and every one of the children had their round eyes fixed on John Walden with a mingling of timidity, affection and awe that was very winning and pretty to behold.

Taking in the whole picture of nature, youth and beauty, as it was set against the pure background of the sky, Walden realised that he was expected to say something,—­in fact, he had been called upon to say something every year at this time, but he had never been able to conquer the singular nervousness which always overcame him on such occasions.  It is one thing to preach from a pulpit to an assembled congregation who are prepared for orthodoxy and who are ready to listen with more or less patience to the expounding of the same,—­ but it is quite another to speak to a number of girls and boys all full of mirth and mischief, and as ready for a frolic as a herd of young colts in a meadow.  Especially when it happens that most of the girls are pretty, and when, as a clergyman and director of souls, one is conscious that the boys are more or less all in love with the girls,—­that one is a bachelor,—­getting on in years too;—­and that--chiefest of all—­it is May-morning!  One may perhaps be conscious of a contraction at the heart,—­a tightening of the throat,—­even a slight mist before the eyes may tease and perplex such an one—­who knows?  A flash of lost youth may sting the memory,—­a boyish craving for love and sympathy may stir the blood, and may make the gravest parson’s speech incoherent,—­for after all, even a minister of the Divine is but a man.

At any rate the Reverend John found it difficult to begin.  The round forget-me-not eyes of Baby Hippolyta stared into his face with relentless persistency,—­the velvet pansy-coloured ones of Susie Prescott smiled confidingly up at him with a bewildering youthfulness and unconsciousness of charm; and the mischief-loving small boys and village yokels who stood grouped against the Maypole like rough fairy foresters guarding magic timber, were, with all the rest of the children, hushed into a breathless expectancy, waiting eagerly for ‘Passon’ to speak.  And ‘Passon’ thereupon began,—­in the lamest, feeblest, most paternally orthodox manner: 

“My dear children—­”

“Hooray!  Hooray!  Three cheers for ‘Passon’!  Hooray!”

Wild whooping followed, and the Maypole rocked uneasily, and began to slant downward in a drunken fashion, like a convivial giant whom strong wine has made doubtful of his footing.

“Take care, you young rascals!” cried Walden, letting sentiment, orthodoxy and eloquence go to the winds,—­“You will have the whole thing down!”

Peals of gay laughter responded, and the nodding mass of bloom was swiftly pulled up and assisted to support its necessary horizontal dignity.  But here Baby Hippolyta suddenly created a diversion.  Moved perhaps by the consciousness of her own beauty, or by the general excitement around her, she suddenly waved a miniature branch of hawthorn and emitted a piercing yell.