That simple soldier was a bigger child than most men, and was, therefore, still conscious of a number of unfathomable things about him, for the which Hilda, his godchild, adored and loved him as a mother will adore her child who sits in a field of buttercups and sees, not minted, nor botanical, but heavenly gold.

He was all the more lovable, because he conceived that he was much bigger and stronger than she, and perfectly capable of looking after her.

In that, he was like a plucky boy who gets up from his buttercups to tell his mother not to be frightened when a cow comes into the field.
They went out together, and greeted each other in the porch.
"Good-evening, child," said the soldier, with a smile.

"And how's Peter ?" Hilda smiled back, but after a rather wintry fashion, which the man was quick to note.

"I couldn't have told you fresh news yesterday," she said, "but I had a letter this morning all about his first Sunday.