The game went on with varying fortune. The star batsman ran himself out, and hotly disputed the Squire’s decision, daring to affirm that his lordship would have rendered another verdict. The Squire treated such incidents humourously, as not the least amusing part of village cricket. Fordingbridge rebuked the misdemeanant, saying in a loud voice: “Don’t be a damned fool, Dave Misselbrook! I’m ashamed of you.” Dave retreated. The batsman at the other end observed apologetically: “Dave ain’t hisself. His young ’ooman give him the chuck las’ week.” Fordingbridge took this bit of gossip seriously— “Did she? I must have a talk with the baggage.” Lionel laughed, but he was much impressed. Fordingbridge, as he recalled him, a man who raced, and hunted from Melton, and kept late hours and loose company, had indeed changed. Curiosity consumed him to see the “topper,” surely a worker of miracles. Then his thoughts wandered to Joyce. Was she sitting upon the Vicarage lawn with Moxon? Why had Moxon returned so quickly? Had she whistled? _Confound it!_ Thinking of Joyce, an easy catch was missed. Loud cheers from Long-Baddeley. “You duffer!” growled the Squire. Fishpingle shook his head sorrowfully. * * * * * At midday the spectators began to arrive. Margot and Lady Pomfret wandered round the ground, talking to the village fathers and mothers, who sat placidly beneath the oaks and beeches. Lady Pomfret anticipated diversion where it was likely to be met. “This,” she murmured to Margot, “is a character.” They were approaching an old woman, who had been wheeled on to the ground in a bath-chair. She sat erect, tremendously interested in a game she did not understand. A grandson was fielding hard by. “How are you, Mrs. Parish? Isn’t this a little venturesome?” “I’m the same as usual, my lady. My pore heart goes on a-flutterin’ like an old hen tryin’ for to fly. Doctor says ’twill stop sudden-like any minute, night or day. I ain’t afeard. Maybe ’tis presumption to say that. I’d like to go—quick, wi’out givin’ too much trouble. What fair worrits me is the fear o’ poppin’ off in public. If I dropped dead, so to speak, in village street, ’twould scare the little ’uns.” “I see your grandson is playing.” “That he be, an’ proud as King Garge on his throne. Scared too, the gert silly! I told ’un to carry a stiff tail, I did. It mads me, yas, it do, when I see boys an’ girls meetin’ trouble halfway. Nice, religious lad, too. This very marning he makes me promise to pray so be as he bain’t bowled out fust ball.” “And did you?” asked Margot. The old woman looked keenly at her. Village gossip had spread far and wide the Squire’s plans. “This is Lady Margot Maltravers, Mrs. Parish.” “Ah-h-h! I guessed that. Did I pray, my lady? Yas—I did.” “I am quite sure your prayer will be answered,” said Margot.