“But your daughter has nothing awkward about her: for a genteeler girl of her class could not be found in old Albion itself. Is she of your way of thinking in this matter?—though I suppose she must be, as you say she is betrothed.”
“We have not yet conversed on the subject, your honor; but I consider her mind as good as made up, from several little circumstances which might be named.”
“And what are these circumstances, Sergeant?” asked the Major, who began to take more interest than he had at first felt on the subject. “I confess a little curiosity to know something about a woman's mind, being, as you know, a bachelor myself.”
“Why, your honor, when I speak of the Pathfinder to the girl, she always looks me full in the face; chimes in with everything I say in his favor, and has a frank open way with her, which says as much as if she half considered him already as a husband.”
“Hum! and these signs, you think, Dunham, are faithful tokens of your daughter's feelings?”
“I do, your honor, for they strike me as natural. When I find a man, sir, who looks me full in the face, while he praises an officer,—for, begging your honor's pardon, the men will sometimes pass their strictures on their betters,—and when I find a man looking me in the eyes as he praises his captain, I always set it down that the fellow is honest, and means what he says.”
“Is there not some material difference in the age of the intended bridegroom and that of his pretty bride, Sergeant?”
“You are quite right, sir; Pathfinder is well advanced towards forty, and Mabel has every prospect of happiness that a young woman can derive from the certainty of possessing an experienced husband. I was quite forty myself, your honor, when I married her mother.”
“But will your daughter be as likely to admire a green hunting-shirt, such as that our worthy guide wears, with a fox-skin cap, as the smart uniform of the 55th?”
“Perhaps not, sir; and therefore she will have the merit of self-denial, which always makes a young woman wiser and better.”