"Here's Aunt Priscilla now," said Small Porges, at this juncture.
"Lord!" exclaimed the Sergeant, "and sixteen minutes afore her usual time!"
Yes,—there was Miss Priscilla, her basket of sewing upon her arm, as gentle, as unruffled, as placid as usual. And yet it is probable that she divined something from their very attitudes, for there was a light in her eyes, and her cheeks seemed more delicately pink than was their wont. Thus, as she came toward them, under the ancient apple-trees, despite her stick, and her white hair, she looked even younger, and more girlish than ever.
At least, the Sergeant seemed to think so, for, as he met her look, his face grew suddenly radiant, while a slow flush crept up under the tan of his cheek, and the solitary hand he held out to her, trembled a little, for all its size, and strength.
"Miss Priscilla, mam—" he said, and stopped. "Miss Priscilla," he began again, and paused once more.
"Why—Sergeant!" she exclaimed, though it was a very soft little exclamation indeed,—for her hand still rested in his, and so she could feel the quiver of the strong fingers, "why—Sergeant!"
"Miss Priscilla,—" said he, beginning all over again, but with no better success.
"Goodness me!" exclaimed Miss Priscilla, "I do believe he is going to forget to enquire about the peaches!"
"Peaches!" repeated the Sergeant, "Yes, Priscilla."
"And—why?"