"And who have the broader shoulders, you or me, my flower?" asked Debby, fondly. "I'm as wicked as Bart, and that's saying much, for the way he bolts his food is dreadful to think of. Never will I have a corkidile for a husband. But here," cried Deborah, beginning to bustle, "it's the dress I'm thinking of. Magenter or lilacs in full boom. What do you think, my honey-pot?" So the end of Deborah's shameless diplomacy was, that the two went, not to the inferior draper's where Debby bought her extraordinary garments--though they went there later in a Jesuitical manner--but to the hospital, where to her joy Sylvia was allowed to see Paul. He looked thin and pale, but was quite himself and very cheerful. "My darling," he said, kissing Sylvia's hand, while Debby sat bolt upright near the bed, with a large handbag, and played propriety by glaring. "Now I shall get well quickly. The sight of you is better than all medicine." "I should think so," sniffed Debby, graciously. "Where's your orchards, with sich a color." "You mean orchids, Debby," laughed Sylvia, who blushed a rosy red. "It's them things with lady slippers a size too large for your foot I'm a-thinking of, pet, and small it is enough for glarse boots as the fairy story do tell. But I'm a-taking up the precious time of billing and cooing, so I'll shut my mouth and my ears while you let loose your affections, my sweet ones, if you'll excuse the liberty, sir, me being as fond of my lovey there as you is your own self." "No, I can't admit that," said Paul, kissing Sylvia's hand again and holding it while he talked. "Darling, how good of you to come and see me." "It may be for the last time, Paul," said Sylvia, trying to keep back her tears, "but you'll give me your address, and I'll write." "Oh, Sylvia, what is it?" "My father has sold the books and is selling the house. We are going away. Where to I don't know." "Tumbucktook would suit him," snapped Debby, suddenly; "he's trying to get into some rabbit-hole. Why, I don't know." "I do," said Paul, lying back thoughtfully. He guessed that Aaron was moving because of the brooch, though why he should do so was a mystery. "Sylvia," he asked, "did your father see my accident?" "No, Paul. He was busy in the shop. Bart saw it, but Debby said he wasn't to tell father." "Because of the fainting," explained Debby; "the man ain't strong, though Sampson he may think himself--ah, and Goliath, too, for all I care. But why ask, Mr. Beecot?" Paul did not reply to her, but asked Sylvia another question. "Do you remember that opal brooch I showed you?" "The serpent. Yes?" "Well, it's lost." "Lost, Paul?" The young man nodded mournfully. "I'm very vexed about it," he said in a low tone; "my mother wanted it back. I was going to send it that very day, but when I met with the accident it got lost somehow. It wasn't in my pocket when my clothes were examined, though I asked for it as soon as I became conscious. My friend also couldn't tell me."