For some time she did not discover him, standing, a good way off, bareheaded, and in well-fitting flannels. He looked every inch a gentleman! What a contrast to poor Bertie, who seemed, in comparison, a great slouching yokel. “He’s a good-looking chap, isn’t he?” said the Rector, with the complacency of a man who is alluding to one of his own parishioners. “Yes,” admitted young Woolcock in a grudging tone, “I suppose he is--a ladies’ beauty! One hears such a lot of sultry stories, in these days, about women being mashed on their chauffeurs, and runaway matches. For my part, I call a chauffeur a rank idler--a chap who sits all day, looks as solemn as an undertaker, and gets spoiled by the ladies.” Then to Aurea, “Now, come over to the tent, Miss Morven, my mother has kept a place for you.” The match proved close and exciting. Westmere had a strong team, and Aurea looked on with intense interest; the Park was in, and out in the field were Dr. Boas, Hogben, Jones, Owen, and others. Time went on, the last man was in, and making runs--the fate of the match hung in the balance, when it was brought to an end by a capital catch; Owen had not merely to run at top speed, but to stoop suddenly to catch the ball--a fine effort--which was loudly and deservedly applauded. “_He_ knows all about it,” remarked a man who was standing beside Aurea. “He is a public school boy, I’ll bet my hat. What is he doing in Ottinge? A chauffeur! Good Lord! Some young swell in disgrace with his family.” Miss Morven mentally endorsed this speech; but actually she shrugged her shoulders. Miss Susan beamed at the victory--Owen’s triumphs were hers. She felt as proud of his cricket and his songs at the Parish Hall Concerts as if he had been her own flesh and blood--other elderly spinsters have been known to take young men into the recesses of their empty and innocent hearts. When the match was over, she kept her eye on the hero of the occasion, and, seeing him getting into his coat and preparing to depart, she beckoned eagerly, and then hurried towards him with outstretched hands. “Congratulate you, Owen! I do feel so proud of you!” “Thank you, miss. I’m going to fetch the car--it’s getting late.” “Can you tell me the time?” He pulled out his watch from his breast-pocket, and hastily touched--as luck would have it--the wrong spring; the back flew open, and a small photograph, no bigger than a finger-nail, fell upon the grass. In a second Owen had put his foot upon it, swooped, and snatched it up. Whether from stooping or otherwise, his colour was higher than usual, as he boldly confronted Miss Susan, whose face had become unusually grave--for, unless her eyes deceived her (and she had capital sight) the treasure was a photograph of her niece Aurea, cut out of a group of “First Aid” recently taken at the Rectory! She had recognised it in one lightning glance!