"Oh!" exclaimed Anthea.
"Indeed, our nephew is much luckier than I, because I never had an aunt of my own to come and 'tuck me up' at night with her hair hanging all about her—like a beautiful cloak. So, you see, I have no boyish recollections to go upon, but I think I can imagine—"
"And what do you think of the Sergeant?" Anthea enquired, changing the subject abruptly.
"I like him so much that I am going to take him at his word, and call upon him at the first opportunity."
"Did Aunt Priscilla tell you that he comes marching along regularly every day, at exactly the same hour?"
"Yes,—to see how the peaches are getting on!" nodded Bellew.
"For such a very brave soldier he is a dreadful coward," said Anthea, smiling, "it has taken him five years to screw up courage enough to tell her that she's uncommonly young for her age. And yet, I think it is just that diffidence that makes him so lovable. And he is so simple, and so gentle—in spite of all his war medals. When I am moody, and cross, the very sight of him is enough to put me in humour again."
"Has he never—spoken to Miss Priscilla,—?"
"Never,—though, of course, she knows, and has done from the very first. I asked him once, why he had never told her what it was brought him so regularly,—to look at the peaches,—and he said, in his quick, sharp way: 'Miss Anthea,—can't be done, mam,—a poor, battered, old soldier,—only one arm,—no mam.'"
"I wonder if one could find just such another Sergeant outside Arcadia," said Bellew, "I wonder!"