Here the little village dancers slackened the speed of their tripping measure and moved slowly round and round, allowing the garlands and ribbons to drop from their hands one by one against the May-pole, as they sang in softer tones—­

    “The moon shines bright, and the stars give light,
     A little before it is day,
     So God bless you all, both great and small,
      And send you a merrie May!”

Ceasing at this, they all gathered in one group and burst out into an ecstatic roar.

“Hurra!  Three cheers for Passon!”

“Hurra!  Hurra!  Hurra!”

“Three cheers for Miss Vancourt!”

“Hurra!” But here there was a pause.  Some one was obstructing the wave of enthusiasm.  Signs of mixed scuffling were apparent,—­when all suddenly the bold voice of Bob Keeley cried out: 

“Not a bit of it!  Three cheers for Missis Passon!”

Shouts of laughter followed this irreverent proposal, together with much whooping and cheering as never was.  Ipsie Frost, who of course was present, no village revel being considered complete without her, was dancing recklessly all by herself on the grass, chirping in her baby voice a ballad of her own contriving which ran thus: 

    “Daisies white, violets blue,
     Cowslips yellow,—­and
     I loves ’oo!

    Little bird’s nest
     Up in a tree,
    Spring’s comin’,—­and
     ’Oo loves me!”

And it was after Ipsie that Maryllia ran, to cover her smiles and blushes as the echo of the children’s mirth pealed through the garden,—­and with the pretty blue-eyed little creature clinging to her hand, she came back again sedately, with all her own winsome and fairy-like stateliness to thank them for their good wishes.

“They mean it so well, John!” she said afterwards, when the youngsters, still laughing and cheering, had gone away with their crowned symbol of the dawning spring—­“and they love you so much!  I never knew of any man that was loved so much by so many people in one little place as you are, John!  And to be loved by all the children is a great thing;—­I think—­of course I cannot be quite sure—­but I think it is an exceptional thing—­for a clergyman!”

* * * * * * *

* * * * *

* * *

With rose-crowned June, the rose-window in the church of St. Rest was filled in and completed.  Maryllia had found all the remaining ancient stained glass that had been needed to give the finishing touch to its beauty, and the loveliest deep gem-like hues shone through the carven apertures like rare jewels in a perfect setting.  The rays of light filtering through them were wonderful and mystical,—­such as might fall from the pausing wings of some great ministering angel,—­and under the blaze of splendid colour, the white sarcophagus with its unknown ‘Saint’ asleep, lay steeped in soft folds of crimson and azure, gold and amethyst, while even