“It’s so pretty, George,” cries Mrs Bagnet, turning it on all sides, and holding it out at arm’s length, “that it seems too choice for me.”

“Bad!” says Mr Bagnet. “Not my opinlon.”

“But whatever it is, a hundred thousand thanks, old fellow,” says Mrs Bagnet, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, and her hand stretched out to him; “and though I have been a crossgrained soldier’s wife to you sometimes, George, we are as strong friends, I am sure, in reality, as ever can be. Now you shall fasten it on yourself, for good luck, if you will, George.”

The children close up to see it done, and Mr Bagnet looks over young Woolwich’s head to see it done with an interest so maturely wooden, yet pleasantly childish, that Mrs Bagnet cannot help laughing in her airy way and saying, “O, Lignum, Lignum, what a precious old chap you are!” But the trooper fails to fasten the brooch. His hand shakes, he is nervous, and it falls off. “Would any one believe this?” says he, catching it as it drops and looking round. “I am so out of sorts that I bungle at an easy job like this!”

Mrs Bagnet concludes that for such a case there is no remedy like a pipe; and fastening the brooch herself in a twinkling, causes the trooper to be inducted into his usual snug place, and the pipes to be got into action. “If that don’t bring you round, George,” says she, “just throw your eye across here at your present now and then, and the two together must do it.”

“You ought to do it of yourself,” George answers; “I know that very well, Mrs Bagnet. I’ll tell you how one way and another, the blues have got to be too many for me. Here was this poor lad. ’Twas dull work to see him dying as he did, and not be able to help him.”

“What do you mean, George? You did help him. You took him under your roof.”

“I helped him so far, but that’s little. I mean, Mrs Bagnet, there he was, dying without ever having been taught much more than to know his right hand from his left. And he was too far gone to be helped out of that.”

“Ah, poor creetur!” says Mrs Bagnet.

“Then,” says the trooper, not yet lighting his pipe, and passing his heavy hand over his hair, “that brought up Gridley in a man’s mind. His was a bad case too, in a different way. Then the two got mixed up in a man’s mind with a flinty old rascal who had to do with both. And to think of that rusty carbine, stock and barrel, standing up on end in his corner, hard, indifferent, taking everything so evenly — it made flesh and blood tingle, I do assure you.”

“My advice to you,” returns Mrs Bagnet, “is to light your pipe and tingle that way. It’s wholesomer and comfortabler, and better for the health altogether.”

“You’re right,” says the trooper, “and I’ll do it.”

So he does it: though still with an indignant gravity that impresses the young Bagnets, and even causes Mr Bagnet to defer the ceremony of drinking Mrs Bagnet’s health; always given by himself, on these occasions in a speech of exemplary terseness. But the young ladies having composed what Mr Bagnet is in the habit of calling “the mixtur,” and George’s pipe being now in a glow, Mr Bagnet considers it his duty to proceed to the toast of the evening. He addresses the assembled company in the following terms.

“George. Woolwich. Quebec. Malta. This is her birthday. Take a day’s march. And you won’t find such another. Here’s towards her!”

The toast having been drunk with enthusiasm, Mrs Bagnet returns thanks in a neat address of corresponding brevity. This model composition is limited to the three words “And wishing yours!” which the old girl