“So I made so bold as to—­come here sir,” pursued the Sergeant still interested in the foliage above, “half an hour afore my usual time—­to ask you, sir—­if you would so far oblige me—­as to—­hand it to her—­when I’m gone, sir.”

“Lord, no!” said Bellew, smiling and shaking his head, “not on your life, Sergeant!  Why man it would lose half its value in her eyes if any other than you gave it to her.  No Sergeant, you must hand it to her yourself, and, what’s more, you must slip it upon her finger.”

“Good Lord! sir!” exclaimed the Sergeant, “I could never do that!”

“Oh yes you could!”

“Not unless you—­stood by me—­a force in reserve, as it were, sir.”

“I’ll do that willingly, Sergeant.”

“Then—­p ’raps sir—­you might happen to know—­which finger?”

“The third finger of the left hand, I believe Sergeant.”

“Here’s Aunt Priscilla now,” said Small Porges, at this juncture.

“Lord!” exclaimed the Sergeant, “and sixteen minutes afore her usual time!”

Yes,—­there was Miss Priscilla, her basket of sewing upon her arm, as gentle, as unruffled, as placid as usual.  And yet it is probable that she divined something from their very attitudes, for there was a light in her eyes, and her cheeks seemed more delicately pink than was their wont.  Thus, as she came toward them, under the ancient apple-trees, despite her stick, and her white hair, she looked even younger, and more girlish than ever.

At least, the Sergeant seemed to think so, for, as he met her look, his face grew suddenly radiant, while a slow flush crept up under the tan of his cheek, and the solitary hand he held out to her, trembled a little, for all its size, and strength.

“Miss Priscilla, mam—­” he said, and stopped.  “Miss Priscilla,” he began again, and paused once more.

“Why—­Sergeant!” she exclaimed, though it was a very soft little exclamation indeed,—­for her hand still rested in his, and so she could feel the quiver of the strong fingers, “why—­Sergeant!”

“Miss Priscilla,—­” said he, beginning all over again, but with no better success.

“Goodness me!” exclaimed Miss Priscilla, “I do believe he is going to forget to enquire about the peaches!”

“Peaches!” repeated the Sergeant, “Yes, Priscilla.”

“And—­why?”

“’Cause he’s brought you a ring,” Small Porges broke in, “a very handsome ring, you know, Aunt Priscilla,—­all diamonds an’ jewels, an’ he wants you to please let him put it on your finger—­if you don’t mind.”

“And—­here it is!” said the Sergeant, and gave it into her hand.

Miss Priscilla stood very silent, and very still, looking down at the glittering gems, then, all at once, her eyes filled, and a slow wave of colour dyed her cheeks: 

“Oh Sergeant!” she said, very softly, “Oh Sergeant, I am only a poor, old woman—­with a lame foot!”