“Mr. Bellew, and comrade,” said he, lifting his glass, “I give you—­Miss Priscilla!”

“God bless her!” said Peterday.

“Amen!” added Bellew.  So the toast was drunk,—­the glasses were emptied, re-filled, and emptied again,—­this time more slowly, and, the clock striking nine, Bellew rose to take his leave.  Seeing which, the Sergeant fetched his hat and stick, and volunteered to accompany him a little way.  So when Bellew had shaken the sailor’s honest hand, they set out together.

“Sergeant,” said Bellew, after they had walked some distance, “I have a message for you.”

“For me, sir?”

“From Miss Priscilla.”

“From—­indeed, sir!”

“She bid me tell you that—­the peaches are riper to-night than ever they were.”

The Sergeant seemed to find in this a subject for profound thought, and he strode on beside Bellew very silently, and with his eyes straight before him.

“‘That the peaches were riper,—­to-night,—­than ever they were?’” said he at last.

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Riper!” said the Sergeant, as though turning this over in his mind.

“Riper than ever they were!” nodded Bellew.

“The—­peaches, I think, sir?”

“The peaches, yes.”  Bellew heard the Sergeant’s finger rasping to and fro across his shaven chin.

“Mr. Bellew, sir—­she is a—­very remarkable woman, sir!”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“A—­wonderful woman!”

“Yes, Sergeant!”

“The kind of woman that—­improves with age, sir!”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Talking of—­peaches, sir, I’ve often thought—­she is—­very like a peach—­herself, sir.”

“Very, Sergeant, but—­”

“Well, sir?”

“Peaches do—­not improve with age, Sergeant,—­’and the peaches are—­riper than ever they were,—­to-night!’” The Sergeant stopped short, and stared at Bellew wide-eyed.

“Why—­sir,” said he very slowly, “you don’t mean to say you—­think as she—­meant—­that—?”

“But I do!” nodded Bellew.  And now, just as suddenly as he had stopped, the Sergeant turned, and went on again.

“Lord!” he whispered—­“Lord!  Lord!”

The moon was rising, and looking at the Sergeant, Bellew saw that there was a wonderful light in his face, yet a light that was not of the moon.

“Sergeant,” said Bellew, laying a hand upon his shoulder, “why don’t you speak to her?”

“Speak to her,—­what me!  No, no, Mr. Bellew!” said the Sergeant, hastily.  “No, no,—­can’t be done, sir,—­not to be mentioned, or thought of, sir!” The light was all gone out of his face, now, and he walked with his chin on his breast.

“The surprising thing to me, Sergeant, is that you have never thought of putting your fortune to the test, and—­speaking your mind to her, before now.”