"I'm an old woman, Sergeant, as well you know!" sighed Miss Priscilla, shaking her head.
"Old, mam!" repeated the Sergeant, "old, mam!—nothing of the sort, mam!—Age has nothing to do with it.—'Tisn't the years as count.—We aren't any older than we feel,—eh, sir?"
"Of course not!" answered Bellew.
"Nor than we look,—eh sir?"
"Certainly not, Sergeant!" answered Bellew.
"And she, sir,—she don't look—a day older than—"
"Thirty five!" said Bellew.
"Exactly, sir, very true! My own opinion,—thirty five exactly, sir."
"Sergeant," said Miss Priscilla, bending over her work again, "Sergeant,—your hat!" The Sergeant, hereupon, removed the distracting head-gear altogether, and sat with it upon his knee, staring hard at the tree again. Then, all at once, with a sudden gesture he drew a large, silver watch from his pocket,—rather as if it were some weapon of offence,—looked at it, listened to it, and then nodding his head, rose to his feet.
"Must be going," he said, standing very straight, and looking down at little Miss Priscilla, "though sorry, as ever,—must be going, mam,—Miss Priscilla mam—good day to you!" And he stretched out his hand to her with a sudden, jerky movement. Miss Priscilla paused in her sewing, and looked up at him with her youthful smile: