"I am almost a stranger here," said I, "as I belong to the garrison at Winchester."
"You are an officer?"
"Yes, madam, of the Royal Welsh Fusileers."
She simply bowed, but did not respond to my information by saying who she was.
"Though a soldier, sir," said she, after a pause, "I dare say you will be aware that the hardest battles of this world are not fought in the field."
"Where then?"
"Where we might least look for struggles of the soul: in many a well-ordered drawing-room; in many a poor garret; in many a lovely bower and sunny garden, or in a green and shady lane like this; fought in secrecy and the silence of the heart, and in tears that are hot and salt as blood!"
She is very pretty, thought I; but I hope she won't become melodramatic, hysterical, or anything of that sort!
"Darkness will be set in ere you can reach Whitchurch, at our present rate of progression," said I; "and your--your--" (I was about to say husband) "relations or friends will be anxious about you."
"Alas, no, sir! I have no one to miss or to regret me," she replied, mournfully; "but I must not intrude selfishly my sorrows on a stranger."