out of a _Family Herald_," explained Deborah,
incoherently, "where gentry throw themselves on their knees to arsk
'ands in marriage. Bart was down on his hunkers every night for two
weeks before he proposed proper, and I ses, ses I--"

"Will you hold your tongue?" interrupted Aaron, angrily; "you gabble
gabble till you make my head ache. You confuse me."

"I want to clear your 'ead," retorted Miss Junk, "seeing you take no
interest in my pretty's livings."

Norman placed his fingers under Sylvia's chin, and tipped it up so that
he could gaze into her eyes. "Child, do you love him?" he asked gravely.

"Oh, father!" whispered Sylvia, and said no more. The expression of her
eyes was enough for Aaron, and he turned away with a sigh.

"You know nothing about him," he said at length.

"Begging pardon, sir, for being a gabbler," said Deborah, witheringly,
"but know what he is we do--a fine young gent with long descents and
stone figgers in churches, as Bart knows. Beecot's his par's name, as is
fighting with Mr. Paul by reason of contrariness and 'igh living, him
being as stout as stout."

"Perhaps you will explain, Sylvia," said Aaron, turning impatiently from
the handmaiden.

"I should have explained before," said the girl, quietly and very
distinctly. "I loved Paul from the moment I saw him enter the shop six
months ago. He came again and again, and we often talked. Then he told
me of his love, and I confessed mine. Deborah wanted to know who he was,
and if he was a good man. From what I learned of Paul's people he seemed
to be all that was good and generous and high-minded and loving. Deborah
sent Bart one holiday to Wargrove in Essex, where Paul's parents live,
and Bart found that Paul had left home because he wanted to be an
author. Paul is very popular in Wargrove, and everyone speaks well of
him. So Deborah thought we might be engaged, and--"

"And have you a word to say against it, sir?" demanded Deborah,
bristling.

"No," said Aaron, after a pause, "but you should have told me."

"We should," admitted Sylvia, quickly, "but Paul and I feared lest you
should say 'No.'"

"My child," said the old man, gravely, "so long as you wed a kind and
good man I have nothing to say. Sylvia, I have worked hard these many
years and have made much money, which, by will, I have left to you. When
I die you will be rich. He is poor."

"Paul--yes, he is poor. But what of that?"

"Many fathers might think that an objection