lip; an aquiline nose, grey eyes that apologized to nobody, a broad
brow to balance a broad, square jaw, and, on the top of all, a
square-topped beaver hat. So stood Miss Belcher, with a cricket-bat
under her arm; an Englishwoman, owner of one of England's "stately
homes"; a lady amenable to few laws save of her own making, and to no
man save--remotely--the King, whose health she drank sometimes in
port and sometimes in gin-and-water.

"Good morning, Jack! Sorry to cut you over with that off-drive; but
you shouldn't have come in without knocking. Eh? Is that Harry
Brooks?" Her face grew grave for a moment before she turned upon Mr.
Rogers that smile which, if usually latent and at the best not
entirely feminine, was her least dubitable charm. "Now, upon my
word. Jack, you have more thoughtfulness than ever I gave you credit
for."

Mr. Rogers stared at her.

"An hour's knockabout with me will do the child more good than moping
in the house, and I ought to have thought of it myself. Come along,
Harry Brooks, and play me a match at single wicket. Help me push
away the catapult there into the corner. Will you take first
innings, or shall we toss?"

The catapult indicated by Miss Belcher was a formidable-looking
engine with an iron arm or rod terminating in a spoon-shaped socket,
and worked by a contrivance of crank and chain. You placed your
cricket-ball in the socket, and then, having wound up the crank and
drawn a pin which released the machinery, had just time to run back
and defend your wicket as the iron rod revolved and discharged the