"Always! Always! You know I do. Why, ever since I saw you enter the shop six months ago I have always loved you. I told Debby, and Debby said that I could." "Supposing Debby had said that you couldn't." "Oh, she would never have said that. Why, Paul, she saw you." The young man laughed and colored. "Do I carry my character in my face?" he asked. "Sylvia, don't think too well of me." "That is impossible," she declared. "You are my fairy prince." "Well, I certainly have found an enchanted princess sleeping in a jealously-guarded castle. What would your father say did he know?" Sylvia looked startled. "I am afraid of my father," she replied, indirectly. "Yes--he is so strange. Sometimes he seems to love me, and at other times to hate me. We have nothing in common. I love books and art, and gaiety and dresses. But father only cares for jewels. He has a lot down in the cellar. I have never seen them, you know," added Sylvia, looking at her lover, "nor have Deborah or Bart. But they are there. Bart and Deborah say so." "Has your father ever said so?" "No. He won't speak of his business in the cellar. When the shop is closed at seven he sends Bart away home and locks Deborah and I in the house. That is," she explained anxiously, lest Paul should think her father a tyrant, "he locks the door which leads to the shop. We can walk over all the house. But there we stop till next morning, when father unlocks the door at seven and Bart takes down the shutters. We have lived like that for years. On Sunday evenings, however, father does not go to the cellar, but takes me to church. He has supper with me upstairs, and then locks the door at ten." "But he sleeps upstairs?" "No. He sleeps in the cellar." "Impossible. There is no accommodation for sleeping there." Sylvia explained. "There is another cellar--a smaller 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.