“Proud to know you, sir,—­your servant, sir!”

“How do you do!” said Bellew, and held out his hand with his frank smile.  The Sergeant hesitated, then put out his remaining hand.

“My left, sir,” said he apologetically, “can’t be helped—­left my right—­out in India—­a good many years ago.  Good place for soldiering, India, sir—­plenty of active service—­chances of promotion—­though sun bad!”

“Sergeant,” said Miss Priscilla, without seeming to glance up from her sewing, “Sergeant,—­your hat!” Hereupon, the Sergeant gave a sudden, sideways jerk of the head, and, in the very nick of time, saved the article in question from tumbling off, and very dexterously brought it to the top of his close-cropped head, whence it immediately began, slowly, and by scarcely perceptible degrees to slide down to his ear again.

“Sergeant,” said Miss Priscilla again, “sit down,—­do.”

“Thank you mam,” said he, and proceeded to seat himself at the other end of the rustic bench, where he remained, bolt upright, and with his long legs stretched out straight before him, as is, and has been, the manner of cavalrymen since they first wore straps.

“And now,” said he, staring straight in front of him, “how might Miss Anthea be?”

“Oh, very well, thank you,” nodded Miss Priscilla.

“Good!” exclaimed the Sergeant, with his eyes still fixed, “very good!” Here he passed his hand two or three times across his shaven chin, regarding an apple-tree, nearby, with an expression of the most profound interest: 

“And how,” said he again, “how might Master Georgy be?”

“Master Georgy is as well as ever,” answered Miss Priscilla, stitching away faster than before, and Bellew thought she kept her rosy cheeks stooped a little lower over her work.  Meanwhile the Sergeant continued to regard the tree with the same degree of lively interest, and to rasp his fingers to and fro across his chin.  Suddenly, he coughed behind hand, whereupon Miss Priscilla raised her head, and looked at him.

“Well?” she enquired, very softly: 

“And pray, mam,” said the Sergeant, removing his gaze from the tree with a jerk, “how might—­you be feeling, mam?”

“Much the same as usual, thank you,” she answered, smiling like a girl, for all her white hair, as the Sergeant’s eyes met hers.

“You look,” said he, pausing to cough behind his hand again, “you look—­blooming, mam,—­if you’ll allow the expression,—­blooming,—­as you ever do, mam.”

“I’m an old woman, Sergeant, as well you know!” sighed Miss Priscilla, shaking her head.

“Old, mam!” repeated the Sergeant, “old, mam!—­nothing of the sort, mam!—­Age has nothing to do with it.—­’Tisn’t the years as count.—­We aren’t any older than we feel,—­eh, sir?”

“Of course not!” answered Bellew.

“Nor than we look,—­eh sir?”

“Certainly not, Sergeant!” answered Bellew.