Her hand went down to her right foot.
She drew off her shoes.

Then she drew off her stockings.
By this time she was in a nervous flurry.

Almost you may say that she raced across the stream and clutched at a handful of the columbines.

In less than a minute she was back again, gazing timorously about her.
No one had seen; nobody, that is to say, except the finch, and he piped on cavalierly.

Miss Marty glanced up at him, then at a clearing of green turf underneath his bough, a little to her left.
Why not?
Why should she omit any of May morning's rites?
Miss Marty picked up her skirts again, stepped on to the green turf, and began to dabble her feet in the dew.
"The morn that May began, I dabbled in the dew; And I wished for me a proper young man In coat-tails of the blue.