"Why, I try, mam, I try. Y'see, we've soldiered together so many years and I've been his man so long that 'tis become a matter o'——"
"Of duty, Sergeant—yes, of course!"
"Dooty, mam—pre-cisely!" nodded the Sergeant.
"Pre-cisely, Sergeant and, lack-a-day, how miserable and wretched you both are!"
The Sergeant looked startled.
"And the strange thing is you don't know it," said Mrs. Agatha, snipping off a final rose.
The Sergeant rubbed his square, clean-shaven chin and stared at her harder than ever.
"See how monstrous lonely you are!" sighed Mrs. Agatha, hiding her face among her newly-gathered blooms, a face as sweet and fresh as any of them, despite the silver that gleamed, here and there, beneath her snowy mob-cap.
"Lonely?" said the Sergeant, staring from her to the hammer in his hand, "lonely, why no mam, no. The Major's got his flowers and his cherries and his great History of Fortification as he's a-writing of in ten vollums and I've got the Major and we've both got—got——
"Well, what, Sergeant?"