The day was late in August. The summer had broken; there had been rain, and, though fine, the temperature was fitter for active sports than anything else. Croquet was not yet invented, and, besides, most of the party were of the age for regular games at play. Ellen and Emily did their part in starting these—finding, however, that the Reynolds boys were rather rough, in spite of the objurgations of their sister, who evidently thought herself quite beyond the age for romps. The sports led them to the great home-field on the opposite slope of the ridge from our own. The new farm-buildings were on the level ground at the bottom to the right, where the declivity was much more gradual than to the left, which was very steep, and ended in furze bushes and low copsewood. It was voted a splendid place for hide-and-seek, and the game was soon in such full career that Ellen, who had had quite running enough, could fall out of it, and with her, the other two elder girls. Emily felt Fanny Reynolds’ presence a sort of protection, ‘little guessing what she was up to,’ to use her own expression. Perhaps the girl had not earlier made out who Emily was, or she had been too much absorbed in her cares; but, as the three sat resting on a stump overlooking the hill, she was prompted by the singular inopportuneness of precocious fourteen to observe, ‘I ought to have congratulated you, Miss Winslow.’ Emily gabbled out, ‘Thank you, never mind,’ hoping thus to put a stop to whatever might be coming; but there was no such good fortune. ‘We saw it in the paper. It is your brother, isn’t it?’ ‘What?’ asked unsuspicious Ellen, thinking, no doubt, of some fresh glory to Griffith. And before Emily could utter a word, if there were any she could have uttered, out it came. ‘The marriage—John Griffith Winslow, Esquire, eldest son of John Edward Winslow of Chantry House, to Selina, relict of Sir Henry Peacock and daughter of George Clarkson, Esquire, Q.C. I didn’t think it could be you at first, because you would have been at the wedding.’