I
never saw any one prouder than the good-humoured lad was at this not
very flattering piece of preferment.

_They_ began the warfare--these boastful men of B----! And what think
you was the amount of their innings? These challengers--the famous
eleven--how many did they get? Think! Imagine! Guess! You cannot. Well,
they got twenty-two, or, rather, they got twenty, for two of theirs were
short notches, and would never have been allowed, only that, seeing what
they were made of, we and our umpires were not particular. Oh, how well
we fielded.

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