A solid English-throated cheer announced that the enemy were in sight. A thrill ran through me as I gazed in the direction of their coming, for certainly the appearance of such a celebrated side was something to be seen. It was. A four-in-hand came bumping along the stretch of uneven meadow at a clipping pace. And to my indignant horror and bewilderment I saw that the reins were commanded by a person that wore nice white cuffs and a brown holland blouse. Conceive the cream of English cricket with their legs tucked up on the top of that rocking, creaking, jumping, jolting coach at the mercy of a person in a brown holland blouse! It was a thing that required to be very clearly seen before it could be accepted. In agony of mind I rubbed my eyes and looked more intently at the furiously on-coming vehicle. Never a doubt its pace was reckless, criminally reckless, considering the priceless freight it bore. “What do you think of that?” I cried, turning in my distress to the man beside me. He happened to be the Ancient, so-called, because of his thoughtful air and his supernatural wisdom. “Just look at the confounded thing, I’m certain that girl’ll have it over. Gad! did you see her dodge that ditch by about three inches? Those men must be perfect fools! Why doesn’t that idiot beside her lend a hand? But some of these women are steep enough for anything. That girl ought to be talked to.” “Well, suppose you do the talking,” said the Ancient, with his most reflective air. Then, as the drag lurched into our midst, wheels and harness grunting, the glossy animals in a lather; and they were drawn up with a sure hand in front of the pavilion while a cheering and gaping throng pressed about the wheels to impede the great men in their descent, the Ancient pensively continued, “Tell you what, my boy, I should rather like the chance of talking to that young person.” To do her justice, she was certainly a source of comfort to the eye. When she yielded the reins and stood up on the footboard she had that air of simple resolution that is the source of England’s pride. She was so tall and trim and strong, there was such a decision in her curves that her brown holland with white cuffs and collar, her Zingari tie, and hat-band of the same red and yellow brilliance round a straw, with heavy coils of hair of a proper country fawn-colour beneath, lent her that look of candid capability that nature generally reserves for cricketers of the highest order. I never gave the cracks from Hickory a second thought. Everything about her was so clean, so cool, so absolute, that before she had left the box I had quite convinced myself that whoever she might be she was a young person whose habit was to do things. “Catch!” she cried, and threw down the Hickory score-book.