Then we went in.  And what of our innings?  Guess!  A hundred and sixty-nine!  We headed them by a hundred and forty-seven; and then they gave in, as well they might.  William Grey pressed them much to try another innings, but they were beaten sulky and would not move.

The only drawback in my enjoyment was the failure of the pretty boy David Willis, who, injudiciously put in first, and playing for the first time in a match amongst men and strangers, was seized with such a fit of shamefaced shyness that he could scarcely hold his bat, and was bowled out without a stroke, from actual nervousness.  Our other modest lad, John Strong, did very well; his length told in the field, and he got good fame.  William Grey made a hit which actually lost the cricket-ball.  We think she lodged in a hedge a quarter of a mile off, but nobody could find her.  And so we parted; the players retired to their supper and we to our homes, all good-humoured and all happy—­except the losers.

IV.—­Love, the Leveller

The prettiest cottage on our village green is the little dwelling of Dame Wilson.  The dame was a respected servant in a most respectable family, which she quitted only on her marriage with a man of character and industry, and of that peculiar universality of genius which forms what is called, in country phrase, a handy fellow.  His death, which happened about ten years ago, made quite a gap in our village commonwealth.

Without assistance Mrs. Wilson contrived to maintain herself and her children in their old, comfortable home.  The house had still, within and without, the same sunshiny cleanliness, and the garden was still famous over all other gardens.  But the sweetest flower of the garden, and the joy and pride of her mother’s heart, was her daughter Hannah.  Well might she be proud of her!  At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond a doubt, the prettiest girl in the village, and the best.  Her chief characteristic was modesty.  Her mind was like her person:  modest, graceful, gentle and generous above all.

Our village beauty had fairly reached her twentieth year without a sweetheart; without the slightest suspicion of her having ever written a love-letter on her own account, when, all of a sudden, appearances changed.  A trim, elastic figure, not unaccompanied, was descried walking down the shady lane.  Hannah had gotten a lover!

Since the new marriage act, we, who belong to the country magistrates, have gained a priority over the rest of the parish in matrimonial news.  We (the privileged) see on a work-day the names which the Sabbath announces to the generality.  One Saturday, walking through our little hall, I saw a fine athletic young man, the very image of health and vigour, mental and bodily, holding the hand of a young woman, who was turning bashfully away, listening, and yet not seeming to listen, to his tender whispers.  Hannah!  And she went aside with me, and a rapid series of questions and answers conveyed the story of the courtship.  “William was,” said Hannah, “a journeyman hatter, in B——.  He had walked over to see the cricketing, and then he came again.  Her mother liked him.  Everybody liked him—­and she had promised.  Was it wrong?”