"Dooty, mam—pre-cisely." Here the Sergeant turning round for another nail, Mrs. Agatha bent over the rose-bush, her busy fingers cutting a bloom here and another there and her pretty face quite hidden in the shade of her mob-cap.
"Indeed," she continued, after a while, "'tis no wonder you be so very—fond of him, Sergeant!"
"Fond of him, mam, fond of him," said the Sergeant turning to look at her with glowing eyes, "well—yes, I suppose so—it do be a—a matter o' dooty with me—dooty, Mrs. Agatha, mam."
"You mean duty, Sergeant."
"Dooty, mam, pre-cisely!" nodded the Sergeant, busy at the cherry tree again.
"See how very brave he is!" sighed Mrs. Agatha.
"Brave, mam?" The Sergeant paused with his hammer poised—"Sixteen wounds, mam, seven of 'em bullet and the rest steel! Twenty and three pitched battles besides outpost skirmishes and the like and 'twere his honour the Major as saved our left wing at Ramillies. Brave, mam? Well—yes, he's brave."
"And how kind and gentle he is!"
"Because, mam, because the best soldiers always are."
"And you, Sergeant, see what care you take of him."