“Come now, Eric,” said Wildney, “I’ve got something to propose. You shall play cricket to-day; you haven’t played for an age, and it’s high time you should. If you don’t you’ll go mooning about the shore all day, and that’ll never do, for you’ll come back glummer than ever.” “No!” said Eric, with a heavy sigh, as the image of Vernon instantly passed through his mind; “no more cricket for me.” “Nay, but you _must_ play to-day. Come, you shan’t say no. You won’t say no to me, will you, dear old fellow?” And Wildney looked up to him with that pleasant smile, and the merry light in his dark eyes, which had always been so charming to Eric’s fancy. “There’s no refusing you,” said Eric with the ghost of a laugh, as he boxed Wildney’s ears. “O you dear little rogue, Charlie, I wish I were you.” “Pooh! pooh! now you shan’t get sentimental again. As if you wern’t fifty times better than me every way. I’m sure I don’t know how I shall ever love you enough, Eric,” he added more seriously, “for all your kindness to me.” “I’m so glad you’re going to play, though,” said Graham; “and so will everybody be; and I’m certain it’ll be good for you. The game will divert your thoughts.” So that afternoon Eric, for the first time since Verny’s death, played with the first eleven, of which he had been captain. The school cheered him vigorously as he appeared again on the field, and the sound lighted up his countenance with some gleam of its old joyousness. When one looked at him that day with his straw hat on and its neat light-blue ribbon, and the cricket dress (a pink jersey and leather belt, with a silver clasp in front), showing off his well-built and graceful figure, one little thought what an agony was gnawing like a serpent at his heart. But that day, poor boy, in the excitement of the game he half forgot it himself, and more and more as the game went on. The other side, headed by Montagu, went in first, and Eric caught out two, and bowled several. Montagu was the only one who stayed in long, and when at last Eric sent his middle wicket flying with a magnificent ball, the shouts of “well bowled! well bowled _indeed_,” were universal. “Just listen to that, Eric,” said Montagu; “why, you’re out-doing every body to-day, yourself included, and taking us by storm.” “Wait till you see me come out for a duck,” said Eric laughing. “Not you. You’re too much in luck to come out with a duck,” answered Montagu. “You see I’ve already become the Homer of your triumphs, and vaticinate in rhyme.” And now it was Eric’s turn to go in. It was long since he had stood before the wicket, but now he was there, looking like a beautiful picture as the sunlight streamed over him, and made his fair hair shine like gold. In the triumph of success his sorrows were flung to the winds, and his blue eyes sparkled with interest and joy.