in't nowise good for man to live alone seeing as man be born to
wedlock as the sparks do up'ard fly and what's bred i' the bone is
bound to be. Moreover man cleaveth to woman and vicey-versey, your
honour. Furthermore (argues I) wedlock is a comfortable
institootion--now and then, sir, and very nat'ral 'twixt man and maid
whereby come heirs o' the body male and female, your honour. And
furthermore (I argues) you're a man and she's a maid and both on you
apt and fit for same, therefore, if so--why not? Moreover again
(thinks I) if two folk do love each other and there ain't any kind o'
just cause nor yet impedimenta--why then (says I) wherefore not obey
Natur's call and----your honour----d'ye see----there y'are, sir!" Here
the Sergeant stopped and stood at attention, breathing rather hard,
while the Major, who had averted his head, was silent awhile; when at
last he spoke his voice sounded anything but harsh.

"You're a good soul, Sergeant Zeb, a good soul. But that which
is----impossible can--er--can never be.

'Youth is joyous; Age is melancholy:
Age and Youth together is but folly.'

"'Tis a true saying, Zeb," he sighed, "a true saying and not to be
controverted."

"Certainly not, sir," answered the Sergeant, "and you'll find your
History o' Fortification a-laying on the table in the arbour, sir, also
pens and ink, also pipe and tobacco, also tinder-box, also----"

"Why then, Zeb, since as you say the sun is so warm and the air so
balmy I'll go out and sit awhile and dream I'm young again, for to
youth all things are possible--or seem so." And, sighing, he limped
forth into the sunshine. But now, as he went slowly towards the
orchard, he smiled more than once, and once he murmured:

"God bless his honest heart!"

Thus, slow and listless of step, he came at last into the pleasant
seclusion of the orchard and, with head bowed and shoulders drooping
like one that is very weary, entered the cool shadow of the hutch-like
sentry-box and started back, trembling all at once and with breath in
check.

She sat looking up at him, great-eyed and very still, yet all vigorous
young life from the glossy love-lock above white brow to her dainty
riding-boot.

"Why John," said she softly, "do I fright you? Will you run from me
again you great, big, 'Fighting d'Arcy'?" And now, because of his
look, over snowy neck and cheek and brow crept a rosy flush, her lips
quivered to a shy smile, never had she seemed so