A few more runs were added to the score before the last wicket fell. Charles Parish achieved three singles and carried out his bat. The prayers of two righteous women had availed that much. Total score for Nether-Applewhite, two hundred and three. Long-Baddeley went in with one hundred and twelve runs to make in less than two hours. If they failed, and ten wickets fell, they would suffer ignominious defeat. Strategy demanded careful play. Fordingbridge congratulated the Squire upon his pitch, a batsman’s wicket, which accounted for big scores rare in village cricket. Margot went back to Lady Pomfret and tea. She sat next to Joyce and talked to her. Joyce seemed preoccupied—not herself. Her interest in the game struck Margot as feigned. Her face, too, was paler than usual, faint shadows encircled her eyes. Was she sorry that Moxon had come back? It appeared, however, that Moxon’s visit was incidental, almost accidental. He had to leave on the Monday. “Have you a headache?” asked Margot. “Yes.” Margot, under the same circumstances, would have said “No.” She decided that Joyce’s sincerity might be reckoned her _cheval de bataille_. She expressed sympathy, offering to send her maid to fetch some aspirin tabloids from the Hall. Joyce made light of a petty ailment. The sun was rather hot. Her headache would pass. As the two girls talked one of the village mothers passed by, dragging a toddler of her own. The child caught her foot in the ropes of the marquee, fell heavily, and began to howl. Joyce jumped up, snatched the child from the ground, crooned over it, hugged it, made it laugh, whilst the young mother stood sheepishly looking on. “Leave her with me for a few minutes,” said Joyce. The mother moved on, the child cuddled up to Joyce, and then fell asleep. Margot said in a whisper. “That was amazing. How do you do it?” “I am fond of children.” “And this one is a special favourite?” “No; I don’t think I know this child. The mother is from Ocknell. She married a Nether-Applewhite man, but they have only come here lately.” “It’s magic.” Presently the mother came back, but the child left Joyce reluctantly. Margot thought that she had guessed the riddle. “She must ill-treat the child.” Joyce smiled. “Oh no. Village mothers rather spoil their children. Didn’t you know that?” Margot confessed that she didn’t. Joyce continued: “But, of course, there is the reaction, when they are tired and fussed. That mother was fussed. I saw it at once. To come here this afternoon means more work to-night.” “How is your headache?” “Gone!” “Really, you know, you’re rather an amazing person. But you hide your light. I don’t. Yours burns with a steadier beam.” “A farthing dip,” said Joyce. * * * * *