So, at any rate, seemed to think the group of boys and girls who were assembled there, since they had set up some wickets, and were enthusiastically engaged in a game of cricket, for which the short fine grass made an excellent pitch. It looked so interesting that Isobel strolled rather nearer to the players, and finding an upturned boat upon the beach, she curled herself under its shadow, and settled down, apparently unnoticed, to watch the progress of the game. She could hear as well as see, and her ears were keenly alert to the scraps of lively conversation which floated towards her. "Have you found the ball?" "Yes; under a heap of nettles, and stung my fingers horribly. Just look at the blisters." "Don't be a baby. Go on; it's your play." "I can't hold the bat while my hands hurt so." "Then miss your turn.--Come along, Bertie, and have your innings; Ruth doesn't want hers." "Yes, I do! I'm older than Bertie, so I must go in first. If you'd only wait a minute, till I can find a dock leaf." "We can't wait. How tiresome you are! Here, Bertie, take the bat." "It's not fair! We were to go in ages, and I'm six months older than he is." "You can have your turn after Joyce." "Joyce! She's only nine, and I'm eleven." "Then miss it altogether, and don't make yourself a nuisance!--Now then, Bertie, look out for a screw." "It's a shame! I always seem to get left out of things!" grumbled the little girl, with a very aggrieved countenance, sitting down upon a rusty anchor, and nursing her nettled hand tenderly. "It's your own fault this time, at any rate," said a companion, with scant sympathy. "There are plenty of dock leaves growing under the cliff if you want them." "Bravo, Bertie! Well hit!" "Quick with that ball, Arthur!" "Play up, Bertie!" "Well run! Well run!" "Oh, he's out! Hard luck!" "Whose turn is it now?" "Belle's." "Where is she?" "Here I am, ready and waiting. Now give me a good ball. It's Hugh's turn to bowl, and if he sends me one of his nasty screws or sneaks I shan't be friends with him any more." Isobel gazed at the last speaker, entranced. There was no mistaking the apple-blossom cheeks and the silky flaxen curls of her fellow-traveller in the crowded carriage, though to-day the white silk dress and the blue hat were replaced by a delicate pale pink muslin and a broad-brimmed straw trimmed with a gauze scarf. She looked even more charming than ever, like some fairy in a story-book or one of the very prettiest pictures you get upon chocolate boxes; she seemed to put all other children round her in the shade, and as she stood there, a graceful little figure at the wicket, Isobel's eyes followed her every movement with an absolute fascination.