The Rev. Stole had a handsome, though a pale and melancholy countenance, recalling Mr. Forbes Robertson as Hamlet, and apart from this Dolly was very much impressed by his fine voice and his expressive rendering of the Scriptures. She began to wonder why she had never attended his services before. While she was thus wholly absorbed a sudden and embarrassing distraction took place.
“Bump! bump! thump! thump!” The noise resounded through the church, and as the Rev. Athanasius looked up from the lectern in astonishment, he saw a hard, round object roll slowly past him down the aisle towards the choir stalls. Following the direction from whence the missile had come, his eyes rested upon the crimson face of Miss Dolly’s young companion, and at the same time he saw the girl, who was also rosy with blushes, bend over towards the lad to expostulate with him. Evidently the boy was in some way responsible for the throwing of the ball, for ball it was. With a gentle sigh the clergyman plunged once more into the lesson and the service continued.
Afterwards, in the vestry, when the curate and the choir boys had departed, the old clerk came up to him, holding a black-looking object in his hand.
“Here’s profanity for you, sir,” exclaimed the old man dismally. “Now what would you believe this ’ere is?
The Rey. Athanasius Stole took the accursed thing in his hand.
“A cricket ball!”
Strange to relate, the clergyman did not speak in a very shocked voice, and at the same time he tossed the ball into the air with a nimble flick of his fingers, and caught it again. The spin as his hand closed around it sent a strange thrill down his arm and through his whole being.
The clerk looked on in consternation. Mr. Stole slipped the ball into his pocket, and went out into the dazzling June sunshine, which streamed through the rustling trees around the churchyard in green and golden floods of light.
A girl in a cool muslin dress, holding a white silk parasol in one hand and a small boy in the other, was waiting outside the vestry door. The Rev. Athanasius saw at once that it was Dolly, and he braced himself for the interview.
“Oh, Mr. Stole, I am so sorry that my little cousin did such a shocking thing in church,” she began, looking very red and confused. “He oughtn’t to have pulled the ball out of his pocket. I didn’t know he had it with him. You’re very sorry, aren’t you, Tommy?”
“Yes,” replied the boy, very shamefaced; then brightening at the excuse, added, “I was thinking of Ranji!”
The clergyman had raised his hat to the girl, but now, without replying to her, he bent over the young enthusiast.
“So you’re fond of cricket, my man, are you?” he inquired kindly.
“I can bowl round-arm!” cried the boy, with a confidential burst.
“Then you’ll be glad to have your ball back again,” said the Rev. Athanasius, taking it from his pocket. He tossed it a yard in the air, absent-mindedly, catching it as before.
“You do give it a twist,” remarked the boy admiringly. “I wish I could. Do you like cricket?”
“I used to once,” replied the Rev. Mr. Stole with a sigh.
“Oh! I wish you could play,” cried Dolly, eagerly because involuntarily.
“I did—once,” answered Mr. Stole sadly, looking down at the pretty, animated face.
“Mr. Cassock is beginning again,” Dolly continued.
“Indeed!” replied the Rev. Athanasius, with an amused smile.
“I’m sure you could play better than him,” remarked the boy emphatically. “I can bowl him out.”
“Well, good-morning, Mr. Stole,” observed Dolly, holding out a small white-gloved hand. “I enjoyed your service so much. I shall come again next Sunday.”
“I regret I am going away to-morrow for a holiday,” said the clergyman.
“Oh! then you will miss my great cricket match with Mr. Cassock next Saturday week,” answered the girl.
“Your match with Mr. Cassock!”
“Oh, I’m not playing. We’re each getting up an eleven, and I think my side will win. It’s stronger than I intended. But Mr. Trouncer, the new curate, is a splendid player, and, of course, he’s in Mr. Cassock’s team. If you played cricket I would have asked you. Good-morning.”
As the Rev. Athanasius Stole walked through the fields to his cold Sunday dinner, his thoughts were working in a new and unaccustomed direction.
The forthcoming cricket match between Miss Dolly Temple’s eleven and the Rev. Samuel Cassock’s parish club caused much interest and excitement in the district. Dolly’s young uncle, father of the irreverent Tommy, was intrusted with the task of raising her team. Unfortunately, volunteers had been so many and so talented that the side was a very formidable one. Every man in the neighbourhood who could handle a bat or bowl a
