"And did—He—pour out the tea?" enquired Miss Priscilla, "from the china pot with the blue flowers and the Chinese Mandarin fanning himself,—and very awkward, of course, with his one hand,—I don't mean the Mandarin, Mr. Bellew,—and very full of apologies?"
"He did."
"Just as usual; yes he always does,—and every year he gives me three lumps of sugar,—and I only take one, you know. It's a pity," sighed Miss Priscilla, "that it was his right arm,—a great pity!" And here she sighed again, and, catching herself, glanced up quickly at Bellew, and smiled to see how completely absorbed he was in contemplation of the silent figure in the window-seat. "But, after all, better a right arm—than a leg," she pursued,—"at least, I think so!"
"Certainly!" murmured Bellew.
"A man with only one leg, you see, would be almost as helpless as an—old woman with a crippled foot,—"
"Who grows younger, and brighter, every year!" added Bellew, turning to her with his pleasant smile, "yes, and I think,—prettier!"
"Oh, Mr. Bellew!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla shaking her head at him reprovingly, yet looking pleased, none the less,—"how can you be so ridiculous,—Good gracious me!"
"Why, it was the Sergeant who put it into my head,—"
"The Sergeant?"
"Yes,—it was after I had given him your message about peaches, Aunt
Priscilla and—"