The Sergeant turned and began to nail up another branch of the great cherry tree, ere he answered:
"You, mam—we've both got—you, mam—"
"Lud, Sergeant Tring, and how may that be?"
"To teach," continued the Sergeant slowly, "to teach two battered old soldiers, as never knew it afore, what a home might be. There never was such a housekeeper as you, mam, there never will be!"
"A home!" repeated Mrs. Agatha softly. "'Tis a sweet word!"
"True, mam, true!" nodded the Sergeant emphatically. "'Specially to we, mam, us never having had no homes, d'ye see. His honour and me have been campaigning most of our days—soldiers o' fortune, mam, though there weren't much fortune in it for us except hard knocks—a saddle for a piller, earth for bed and sometimes a damned—no, a—damp bed, mam, the sky for roof——"
"But you be come home at last, Sergeant," said Mrs. Agatha softer than ever.
"Home? Aye, thanks to his honour's legacy as came so sudden and unexpected. Here's us two battered old soldiers comes marching along and finds this here noble mansion a-waiting for us full o' furniture and picters and works o' hart——"
"Art, Sergeant!"
"Aye, hart, mam—pre-cisely—and other knick-knacks and treasures and among 'em—best and brightest——"