"Well, sir," she said, folding her arms and scratching her elbow, "I do think as offspring ain't lumps of dirt to be trod on in this way. I arsk"--she flung out her hand towards Sylvia--"Is she your own or is she not?" "She is my daughter," said Aaron, mildly. "Why do you ask?" "'Cause you don't take interest you should take in her marriage, which is made in heaven if ever marriage was." Norman raised his head like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet-call. "Who talks of marriage?" he asked sharply. "Dear father," said Sylvia, gently, "did you not hear? I love Paul, and I want to marry him." Aaron stared at her. "He is not a good match for you," was his reply. "He is the man I love," cried Sylvia, tapping with her pretty foot. "Love," said Norman, with a melancholy smile, "there is no such thing, child. Talk of hate--for that exists," he clenched his hands again, "hate that is as cruel as the grave." "Well I'm sure, sir, and what 'ave hates to do with my beauty there? As to love, exist it do, for Bart's bin talked into filling his 'eart with the same, by me. I got it 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--"