There was a waving of hands, much nodding and curtseying, as the postillion resumed his demi-volts--all to the stupefaction of Mrs.Pagnell; but she dared not speak, she had Morsfield on the mouth.

Nor could she deny the excellent quality of the bread and butter, and milk, too, at the sign of the Jolly Cricketers.

She admitted, moreover, that the food and service of the little inn belonged in their unpretentious honesty to the kind we call old English: the dear old simple country English of the brotherly interchange in sight of heaven--good stuff for good money, a matter with a blessing on it.
'But,' said she, 'my dear Aminta, I do not and I cannot understand looks of grateful affection at a small innkeeper's wife paid, and I don't doubt handsomely paid, for her entertainment of you.' 'I feel it,' said Aminta; tears rushed to her eyelids, overflowing, and her features were steady.
'Ah, poor dear! that I do understand,' her aunt observed.

'Any little kindness moves you to-day; and well it may.' 'Yes, aunty,' said Aminta, and in relation to the cause of her tears she was the less candid of the two.
So far did she carry her thanks for a kindness as to glance back through her dropping tears at the sign-board of the Jolly Cricketers; where two brave batsmen cross for the second of a certain three runs, if only the fellow wheeling legs, face up after the ball in the clouds, does but miss his catch: a grand suspensory moment of the game, admirably chosen by the artist to arrest the wayfarer and promote speculation.

For will he let her slip through his fingers when she comes down?
or will he have her fast and tight?
And in the former case, the bats are tearing their legs off for just number nought.