“And—­have you sat here watching him, every year?”

“Every year!”

“And he has never guessed you were watching him?”

“Good gracious me!—­of course not.”

“Don’t you think, Aunt Priscilla, that you are—­just a little—­cruel?”

“Cruel—­why—­what do you mean?”

“I gave him your message, Aunt Priscilla.”

“What message?”

“That ‘to-night, the peaches were riper than ever they were.’”

“Oh!” said Miss Priscilla, and waited expectantly for Bellew to continue.  But, as he was silent she glanced at him, and seeing him staring at the moon, she looked at it, also.  And after she had gazed for perhaps half a minute, as Bellew was still silent, she spoke, though in a very small voice indeed.

“And—­what did—­he say?”

“Who?” enquired Bellew.

“Why the—­the Sergeant, to be sure.”

“Well, he gave me to understand that a poor, old soldier with only one arm left him, must be content to stand aside, always and—­hold his peace, just because he was a poor, maimed, old soldier.  Don’t you think that you have been—­just a little cruel—­all these years, Aunt Priscilla?”

“Sometimes—­one is cruel—­only to be—­kind!” she answered.

“Aren’t the peaches ripe enough, after all, Aunt Priscilla?”

“Over-ripe!” she said bitterly, “Oh—­they are over-ripe!”

“Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?”

“No,” she answered, “no, there’s—­this!” and she held up her little crutch stick.

“Is that all, Aunt Priscilla?”

“Oh!—­isn’t—­that enough?” Bellew rose.  “Where are you going—­What are you going to do?” she demanded.

“Wait!” said he, smiling down at her perplexity, and so he turned, and crossed to a certain corner of the orchard.  When he came back he held out a great, glowing peach towards her.

“You were quite right,” he nodded, “it was so ripe that it fell at a touch.”

But, as he spoke, she drew him down beside her in the shadow: 

“Hush!” she whispered, “Listen!”

Now as they sat there, very silent,—­faint and far-away upon the still night air, they heard a sound; a silvery, rhythmic sound, it was,—­like the musical clash of fairy cymbals which drew rapidly nearer, and nearer; and Bellew felt that Miss Priscilla’s hand was trembling upon his arm as she leaned forward, listening with a smile upon her parted lips, and a light in her eyes that was ineffably tender.

Nearer came the sound, and nearer, until, presently, now in moonlight, now in shadow, there strode a tall, martial figure in all the glory of braided tunic, and furred dolman, the three chevrons upon his sleeve, and many shining medals upon his breast,—­a stalwart, soldierly figure, despite the one empty sleeve, who moved with the long, swinging stride that only the cavalry-man can possess.  Being come beneath a certain latticed window, the Sergeant halted, and, next moment, his glittering sabre flashed up to the salute; then, with it upon his shoulder, he wheeled, and began to march up and down, his spurs jingling, his sabre gleaming, his dolman swinging, his sabre glittering, each time he wheeled; while Miss Priscilla leaning forward, watched him wide-eyed, and with hands tight clasped.  Then, all at once,—­with a little fluttering sigh she rose.