your master only thirty years ago."

"Then more shame to 'er," snapped Deborah, masterfully; "for she ain't
an honest woman if the signs of age is believing. Will I write to my
sister Tilly, as I don't love Mr. Beecot, and arsk if she knowed master
when he wos in that there place, which she can't 'ave, seeing she's bin
there but ten year, and he away twenty?"

"No, Deborah, you'd better say nothing. The case is in Hurd's hands.
I'll tell him what you say, and leave the matter to him. But you must be
deceived about Miss Krill's age."

"I've got two eyes an' a nose," retorted Mrs. Tawsey, "so don't talk of
deceivin's. Thirty and more she is, the hussey, let her Jezebel of a mar
lie as she like, an' can say what you will, Mr. Beecot. But there's my
pretty smilin' from the winder and the tub's a-waitin'; so you go in and
smooth 'er to affections, while I see that Mrs. Purr irons the shirts,
which she do lovely there's no denyin'. Hoh!" and Deborah plunged round
the corner of the house, rampant and full of corn.

Paul walked through the newly-created garden, in which he saw many
proofs of Sylvia's love for flowers, and reached the door in time to
take the girl in his arms. She was flushed and joyful, and her eyes were
as bright as stars. "Paul, darling," she said, as they entered the
sitting-room, where she was struggling with the accounts, "I'm so glad
you are here. What's nine times nine?"

"Eighty-one," said Paul, looking at the long list of figures Sylvia had
been trying to add up. "Why do you make your head ache with these
accounts, darling?"

"I must help Debby, Paul, and I get on very well with the aid of an
arithmetic." And she pointed to a small school book which she had
evidently been studying.

"Let me take the burden from your shoulders," said her lover, smiling,
and sat down at the table which was strewn with bills. In about an hour
he had arranged all these, and had made them out neatly to Deborah's
various customers. Then he directed the envelopes, and Sylvia sealed
them up. All the time they laughed and chatted, and despite the dull
toil thoroughly enjoyed themselves. "But I am glad to see, Sylvia," said
Beecot, pointing to three library volumes lying on the sofa, "that you
enjoy yourself occasionally."

"Oh!" said Sylvia, pouncing on these, "I'm so glad you spoke, Paul; I
wanted to say something to you. _The Confessions of a Thug_," she read
out, and looked at Paul. "Have you read it?"

Beecot nod