"I've knowed him nigh twenty years and I thought I did know him but I
don't know him--there's developments--he's took to whistling of late.
Only this morning I heard him whistling o' this song 'Barbary Allen'
which same were a damned--no, a devilish--no, a con-founded barbarious
young maid if words mean aught."

"True, she had no heart, Sergeant!"

"And a woman without an 'eart, mam----"

"A heart, Sergeant!"

"Aye, mam," said he, staring at the pincers, "a maid or woman without
an 'eart is no good for herself or any----"

"Man!" suggested Mrs. Agatha, softly.

"True, mam, and speaking o' men brings us back to the Major and him
a-whistling as merry as any grig."

"Grigs don't whistle, Sergeant."

"No more they do, mam, no--lark's the word. Also he's set on buying a
noo wig, mam, and him with four brand-noo--almost, except his service
wig which I'll grant you is a bit wore and moth-eaten like arter three
campaigns which therefore aren't to be nowise wondered at. But what is
to be wondered at is his honour troubling about suchlike when 'tis me
as generally reports to him when garments is outwore and me as has done
the ordering of same, these ten year and more. And now here's him
wanting to buy a noo wig all at once! Mam, what I say is--damme!"

"Sergeant, ha' done!"

"Ax your pardon, mam, but 'tis so strange and onexpected. A noo wig!
Wants one more modish! Aye," said the Sergeant, shaking his head,
"'modish' were the word, mam--'modish'! Now what I says to that is----"

"Sergeant, hush!"

"Why I ain't said it yet, mam----"

"Then don't!"

"Very well, mam!" he sighed. "But 'modish'----"

"And why shouldn't he be modish?" demanded Mrs. Agatha warmly, "he's
young enough and handsome enough."

"He's all that, mam, yet----"

"Why should any man be slovenly and old before his time?"

"Aye, why indeed, mam but----"

"There's yourself, for instance."

"Who--me, mam?" exclaimed the Sergeant, hitting himself an amazed blow
on the chest with the pincers, "me?"

"Aye, you! Not that you're slovenly, but you talk and act like a
Methusalem instead of a--a careless boy of forty."

"Three, mam--forty-three."

"Aye, a helpless child of forty-three."

"Child!" murmured the Sergeant. "Helpless child--me? Now what I says
to that is----"

"Hush!" said Mrs. Agatha, severely; but beholding his stupefaction she
laughed merrily and taking up the peas, vanished into the kitchen,
laughing still.

"C