r one--off the large
place he has the safes in. The door is in a dark corner almost under the
street line. This smaller cellar is fitted up as a bedroom, and my
father has slept there all his life. I suppose he is afraid of his
jewels being stolen. I don't think it is good for his health," added the
girl, wisely, "for often in the morning he looks ill and his hands
shake."

"Sylvia, does your father drink alcohol?"

"Oh, no, Paul! He is a teetotaller, and is very angry at those who drink
to excess. Why, once Bart came to the shop a little drunk, and father
would have discharged him but for Deborah."

Paul said nothing, but thought the more. Often it had struck him that
Norman was a drunkard, though his face showed no signs of indulgence,
for it always preserved its paleness. But the man's hands shook, and his
skin often was drawn and tight, with that shiny look suggestive of
indulgence. "He either drinks or smokes opium," thought Paul on hearing
Sylvia's denial. But he said nothing to her of this.

"I must go home now," she said, rising.

"Oh, no, not yet," he implored.

"Well, then, I'll stay for a few minutes longer, because I have
something to say," she remarked, and sat down again. "Paul, do you think
it is quite honorable for you and I to be engaged without the consent of
my father?"

"Well," hesitated Beecot, "I don't think it is as it should be. Were I
well off I should not fear to tell your father everything; but as I am a
pauper he would forbid my seeing you did he learn that I had raised my
eyes to you. But if you like I'll speak, though it may mean our parting
for ever."

"Paul," she laid a firm, small hand on his arm, "not all the fathers in
the world will keep me from you. Often I have intended to tell all, but
my father is so strange. Sometimes he goes whole days without speaking
to me, and at times he speaks harshly, though I do nothing to deserve
rebuke. I am afraid of my father," said the girl, with a shiver. "I said
so before, and I say so again. He is a strange man, and I don't
understand him at all. I wish I could marry you and go away altogether."

"Well, let us marry if you like, though we will be poor."

"No," said Sylvia, sorrowfully; "after all, strange and harsh though my
father is, he is still my father, and at times he is kind. I must stay
with him to the end."

"What end?"

Sylvia shook her head still more sorrowfully. "Who knows? Paul, my
father is afraid of dying suddenly."