her daughter, in the little glass-partitioned bar in the corner of the “house-place”; she had been maid to many an officer’s lady, and had traveled as far abroad as her husband.  Thus while “the tented field” and its dangers held enthralled the larger company of men, present fashions and past adventures—­though less exciting than those of the sergeant—­were entertaining enough to the smaller audience in the bar.  Even ’Melia, the maid-servant of tender years, would share in the social enjoyment, as knitting in hand she stole furtively in from the kitchen and listened unreproved to the interesting discourse.  Sometimes it might happen that the Pikes had been able to drive over in a borrowed conveyance on a winter afternoon; in such case a cosy supper in the snug little bar, after the ordinary company had departed, would take the place of tea.  The Pikes, in their turn, were always hospitably inclined whenever Stephen Dale, his wife, or daughter, or all of them together, might look in upon them of a Sunday after Mass.

The acquaintance, thus ripened, was destined to influence Penny’s future beyond any anticipation on the part of either family.  It fell out on one occasion that Mrs. Pike was unable to accompany the sergeant on a visit to the Dales, and to serve as a companion on the walk he brought with him a fellow-sergeant, much younger, whom he introduced to the Dales as “my particular chum—­Sergeant Spence.”  The newcomer was a decidedly handsome, strapping young soldier, with a merry dark eye, rendered still more striking by his fair hair and tawny moustache.  His skin would have been fair, too, had it not undergone a process of bronzing under tropical suns.  He could not have been thirty, and looked even younger.  He proved also to be unmarried; a fact playfully made known by his companion.  “Arthur’s never met with a missus to suit him since he got his stripes,” he said laughing, as they sat at supper; “he’s like me—­a bit particular in that respect.”  Spence merely greeted the remark with a quiet smile.  He seemed a silent young fellow, with a manner superior to his companion’s.

Perhaps it was a want of circumspection on the part of Stephen Dale that he should welcome a stranger, and a soldier, too, as a guest at his family meal.  But it was his favorite axiom that a sergeant might not be looked down upon “like as if he was a common Tom, Dick, or Harry in the ranks”; so that his hospitality was to be expected in the present instance.  Had either anxious parent had the slightest fear of the attractive sergeant’s pleasing qualities proving too strong for Penny’s “proper pride,” their welcome would have been less genuine; but they were altogether without suspicion.  Yet, as to Penny herself, it must have been evident from the first that the dark eyes often strayed in her direction, and that with unmistakable interest, even on so short an acquaintance.