re astonished that Aaron should be so
indifferent about their long concealment. They had expected and dreaded
a storm, yet when the secret was told Mr. Norman appeared to take it as
calmly as though he had known about the matter from the first. Indeed,
he seemed perfectly indifferent, and when he raised Sylvia and made her
sit beside him on the sofa he reverted to the brooch.

"I shall certainly see Mr. Beecot," he said in a dreamy way. "Charing
Cross Hospital--of course. I'll go to-morrow. I had intended to see
about selling the furniture then, but I'll wait till the next day. I
want the brooch first--yes--yes," and he opened and shut his hand in a
strangely restless manner.

The girl and the servant looked at one another in a perplexed way, for
it was odd Norman should take the secret wooing of his daughter so
quietly. He had never evinced much interest in Sylvia, who had been left
mainly to the rough attentions of Miss Junk, but sometimes he had
mentioned that Sylvia would be an heiress and fit to marry a poor peer.
The love of Paul Beecot overthrew this scheme, if the man intended to
carry it out, yet he did not seem to mind. Sylvia, thinking entirely of
Paul, was glad, and the tense expression of her face relaxed; but
Deborah sniffed, which was always an intimation that she intended to
unburden her mind on an unpleasant subject.

"Well, sir," she said, folding her arms and scratching her elbow, "I do
think as offspring ain't lumps of dirt to be trod on in this way. I
arsk"--she flung out her hand towards Sylvia--"Is she your own or is she
not?"

"She is my daughter," said Aaron, mildly. "Why do you ask?"

"'Cause you don't take interest you should take in her marriage, which
is made in heaven if ever marriage was."

Norman raised his head like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet-call.
"Who talks of marriage?" he asked sharply.

"Dear father," said Sylvia, gently, "did you not hear? I love Paul, and
I want to marry him."

Aaron stared at her. "He is not a good match for you," was his reply.

"He is the man I love," cried Sylvia, tapping with her pretty foot.

"Love," said Norman, with a melancholy smile, "there is no such thing,
child. Talk of hate--for that exists," he clenched his hands again,
"hate that is as cruel as the grave."

"Well I'm sure, sir, and what 'ave hates to do with my beauty there? As
to love, exist it do, for Bart's bin talked into filling his 'eart with
the same, by me. I got it