“And she, sir,—­she don’t look—­a day older than—­”

“Thirty five!” said Bellew.

“Exactly, sir, very true!  My own opinion,—­thirty five exactly, sir.”

“Sergeant,” said Miss Priscilla, bending over her work again, “Sergeant,—­your hat!” The Sergeant, hereupon, removed the distracting head-gear altogether, and sat with it upon his knee, staring hard at the tree again.  Then, all at once, with a sudden gesture he drew a large, silver watch from his pocket,—­rather as if it were some weapon of offence,—­looked at it, listened to it, and then nodding his head, rose to his feet.

“Must be going,” he said, standing very straight, and looking down at little Miss Priscilla, “though sorry, as ever,—­must be going, mam,—­Miss Priscilla mam—­good day to you!” And he stretched out his hand to her with a sudden, jerky movement.  Miss Priscilla paused in her sewing, and looked up at him with her youthful smile: 

“Must you go—­so soon, Sergeant?  Then Good-bye,—­until to-morrow,” and she laid her very small hand in his big palm.  The Sergeant stared down at it as though he were greatly minded to raise it to his lips, instead of doing which, he dropped it, suddenly, and turned to Bellew: 

“Sir, I am—­proud to have met you.  Sir, there is a poor crippled soldier as I know,—­My cottage is very small, and humble sir, but if you ever feel like—­dropping in on him, sir,—­by day or night, he will be—­honoured, sir, honoured!  And that’s me—­Sergeant Richard Appleby—­late of the Nineteenth Hussars—­at your service, sir!” saying which, he put on his hat, stiff-armed, wheeled, and strode away through the orchard, jingling his imaginary spurs louder than ever.

“Well?” enquired Miss Priscilla in her quick, bright way, “Well Mr. Bellew, what do you think of him?—­first impressions are always best,—­at least, I think so,—­what do you think of Sergeant Appleby?”

“I think he’s a splendid fellow,” said Bellew, looking after the Sergeant’s upright figure.

“A very foolish old fellow, I think, and as stiff as one of the ram-rods of one of his own guns!” said Miss Priscilla, but her clear, blue eyes were very soft, and tender as she spoke.

“And as fine a soldier as a man, I’m sure,” said Bellew.

“Why yes, he was a good soldier, once upon a time, I believe,—­he won the Victoria Cross for doing something or other that was very brave, and he wears it with all his other medals, pinned on the inside of his coat.  Oh yes, he was a fine soldier, once, but he’s a very foolish old soldier, now,—­I think, and as stiff as the ram-rod of one of his own guns.  But I’m glad you like him, Mr. Bellew, and he will be proud, and happy for you to call and see him at his cottage.  And now, I suppose, it is half past eleven, isn’t it?”

“Yes, just half past!” nodded Bellew, glancing at his watch.

“Exact to time, as usual!” said Miss Priscilla, “I don’t think the Sergeant has missed a minute, or varied a minute in the last five years,—­you see, he is such a very methodical man, Mr. Bellew!”