"'Cause he's brought you a ring," Small Porges broke in, "a very handsome ring, you know, Aunt Priscilla,—all diamonds an' jewels, an' he wants you to please let him put it on your finger—if you don't mind."
"And—here it is!" said the Sergeant, and gave it into her hand.
Miss Priscilla stood very silent, and very still, looking down at the glittering gems, then, all at once, her eyes filled, and a slow wave of colour dyed her cheeks:
"Oh Sergeant!" she said, very softly, "Oh Sergeant, I am only a poor, old woman—with a lame foot!"
"And I am a poor, old soldier—with only one arm, Priscilla."
"You are the strongest, and gentlest, and bravest soldier in all the world, I think!" she answered.
"And you, Priscilla, are the sweetest, and most beautiful woman in the world, I know! And so—I've loved you all these years, and—never dared to tell you so, because of my—one arm."
"Why then," said Miss Priscilla, smiling up at him through her tears, "if you do—really—think that,—why,—it's this finger, Sergeant!"
So the Sergeant, very clumsily, perhaps, because he had but the one hand, slipped the ring upon the finger in question. And Porges, Big, and Small, turning to glance back, as they went upon their way saw that he still held that small white hand pressed close to his lips.