Yes!  Hannah hath had her enemies, but they are passing away.  The old woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and the keeper?—­why, he is not dead, or like to die, but the change that has taken place there is the most astonishing of all—­except perhaps the change in Hannah herself.

Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were less pretty than Hannah Bint.  Short and stunted in her figure, thin in face, sharp in feature, with a muddied complexion, wild, sunburnt hair, and eyes whose very brightness had in them something startling, over-informed, too clever for her age; at twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy.

Now, at seventeen, matters are mended.  Her complexion has cleared; her countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into height and lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is softened and sweetened by a womanly wish to please; her hair is trimmed and curled and brushed with exquisite neatness; and her whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming which would be called the highest degree of coquetry if it did not deserve the better name of propriety.  The lass is really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so.  There he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking is over); there he stands holding her milk-pail in one hand, and stroking Watch with the other.  There they stand, as much like lovers as may be; he smiling and she blushing; he never looking so handsome, nor she so pretty, in their lives.

There they stand, and one would not disturb them for all the milk and the butter in Christendom.  I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding-day.

III.—­A Country Cricket Match

I doubt if there be any scene in the world more animating or delightful than a cricket match.  I do not mean a set match at Lord’s Ground—­no! the cricket I mean is a real solid, old-fashioned match between neighbouring parishes, where each attacks the other for honour and a supper.

For the last three weeks our village has been in a state of great excitement, occasioned by a challenge from our north-western neighbours, the men of B——­, to contend with us at cricket.  Now, we have not been much in the habit of playing matches.  The sport had languished until the present season, when the spirit began to revive.  Half a dozen fine, active lads, of influence among their comrades, grew into men and yearned for cricket.  In short, the practice recommenced, and the hill was again alive with men and boys and innocent merriment.  Still, we were modest and doubted our own strength.

The B——­ people, on the other hand, must have been braggers born.  Never was such boasting!  Such ostentatious display of practice!  It was a wonder they did not challenge all England.  Yet we firmly resolved not to decline the combat; and one of the most spirited of the new growth, William Grey by name, and a farmer’s son by station, took up the glove in a style of manly courtesy that would have done honour to a knight in the days of chivalry.