"Oh!—it's you?" she exclaimed, just as though she hadn't known it all along. "Dear me! Mr. Bellew,—how lonely you look, and dreadfully thoughtful,—good gracious!" and she glanced up at him with her quick, girlish smile. "I suppose you are wondering what I am doing out here at this unhallowed time of night—it must be nearly eleven o'clock. Oh dear me!—yes you are!—Well, sit down, and I'll tell you. Let us sit here,—in the darkest corner,—there. Dear heart!—how bright the moon is to be sure." So saying, Miss Priscilla ensconced herself at the very end of the rustic bench, where the deepest shadow lay.
"Well, Mr. Bellew," she began, "as you know, to-day is my birthday. As to my age, I am—let us say,—just turned twenty-one and, being young, and foolish, Mr. Bellew, I have come out here to watch another very foolish person,—a ridiculous, old Sergeant of Hussars, who will come marching along, very soon, to mount guard in full regimentals, Mr. Bellew,—with his busby on his head, with his braided tunic and dolman, and his great big boots, and with his spurs jingling, and his sabre bright under the moon."
"So then—you know he comes?"
"Why of course I do. And I love to hear the jingle of his spurs, and to watch the glitter of his sabre. So, every year, I come here, and sit among the shadows, where he can't see me, and watch him go march, march, marching up and down, and to and fro, until the clock strikes twelve, and he goes marching home again. Oh dear me!—it's all very foolish, of course,—but I love to hear the jingle of his spurs."
"And—have you sat here watching him, every year?"
"Every year!"
"And he has never guessed you were watching him?"
"Good gracious me!—of course not."
"Don't you think, Aunt Priscilla, that you are—just a little—cruel?"
"Cruel—why—what do you mean?"