we are all waiting for Mr. Russell, the man who introduced the game of cricket at Charteris, or rather, made it an institution, for it has flourished many years, and many a pretty young mother makes an excellent long-stop or field to her sons, thanks to the training she received at school. To Mr. Russell, therefore, be our eternal thanks due, in that he has, for a time at least, emancipated us from the slavish thraldom of our petticoats and enabled us to stretch our limbs and use them. He is coming over the grass from the school with Miss Tyburn now; tall, erect, a little grey, his dress showing but little of the clergyman about it (he is one of the committee, and owns "The Charteris," the only big house in the place. He is married and has olive branches.) How my heart leaps as I look at him. Why did he not come home sooner? His daughter is with him. And now sides are being chosen, the game begins, and as my side is in I have no opportunity for making myself look ridiculous as yet, I merely look on.
It is a droll sight to see a girl walk up to the wicket and send her ball in, if not as powerfully as a man, well nigh as straight; and to see another standing, bat in hand, with body slightly bent forward, awaiting it. Mr. Russell is against us, and in the next over his fast, round-arm bowling gives me an uneasy sense of fear, the ball hurtles along so swiftly that surely a slender ankle or arm might snap like sealing-wax at its onslaught; and something of that Frenchman's astonishment comes into my mind who could not conceive the reason of Englishmen being so fond of cricket, for where was the pleasure of standing up in a hot sun for a man to shy a hard ball at you, while a lot of other fellows stood round and looked on? If I do come to grief I hope that any amount of arms and legs will be broken, but not my teeth. I never could stand false ones, and I could not do without any, so it would be awkward.
How hot it is! We are all sitting and lying about under the
