"Sir, you may burn me or prison me or put me in pillaries," said Mrs. Tawsey, "but deceive you I won't. Me an' Tilly not bein' of 'appy matchin' don't correspond. We're Londing both," exclaimed Deborah, "father 'avin' bin a 'awker, but why she went to the country, or why I stopped in Gwynne Street, no one knows. And may I arsk, Mr. Beecot, why you arsk of that place?" "Your late master came from Christchurch, Mrs. Tawsey. Did you never hear him mention it?" "That I never did, for close he was, Mr. Beecot, say what you like. I never knowed but what he'd pawned and sold them bookses all his blessed life, for all the talkin' he did. If I'd ha' knowd," added Deborah, lifting her red finger, "as he'd bin maried afore and intended to cast out my lovely queen, I'd ha' strangled him myself." "He had no intention of casting out Sylvia," said Paul, musingly; "he certainly left the money to her." "Then why 'ave that other got it?" "Sylvia's name wasn't mentioned, and Miss Krill is legally entitled as the legitimate daughter." "Call her what you like, she's a cat as her mother is afore her," said Mrs. Tawsey, indignantly, "and not young at that. Thirty and over, as I'm a livin' woman." "Oh, I don't think Miss Krill is as old as that." "Being a man you wouldn't, sir, men bein' blind to wrinklings and paint. But paint she do, the hussey, and young she ain't. Over thirty--if I die for the sayin' of it." "But Mrs. Krill was married to 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?"