Here “Blind-man’s-buff” was going on, there “Drop Handkerchief”. In the corner of the field directly under the postman’s observation a game of Forfeits was proceeding. The schoolmistress, who sat facing him, was holding up one object after the other over the blindfolded head of a pupil-teacher, a bright little girl who had left school recently enough to enter still with almost childish zest into such amusements.
“Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; what is the owner of this Fine Thing to do?” cried the schoolmistress. She had a pleasant, clear voice, and though she sat back upon her heels like many of her pupils, there was something particularly graceful about figure and attitude.
“That’s a shapely maid,” remarked Postman Chris to himself; “yes, and a vitty one too.”
It will be seen that Chris Ryves was a Dorset man, as indeed his name betokened; he came in fact from the other side of the county.
The face which he looked on was as pretty as the figure, its fresh bloom enhanced by the darkness of eyes and hair.
“What is the owner of this Fine Thing to do?” she repeated.
“She must bite an inch off a stick,” responded the pupil-teacher, with a delighted giggle.
The owner of the forfeit, a peculiarly stolid-looking child, came slowly up to redeem her pledge, and, after a mystified but determined attempt to obey the mandate literally, was duly initiated into the proper and innocuous manner of accomplishing it. Then the performance was resumed.
“Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; and what must the owner of this very Fine Thing do?” chanted the schoolmistress.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked the blindfolded oracle.