"To you, dear," said Beecot, leading her to the sofa, "that is, the money was left in that loosely-worded will to 'my daughter.' We all thought it was you, but now this legal wife has come on the scene, the money must go to her daughter. Oh, Sylvia," cried Paul, straining her to his breast, "how foolish your father was not to say the money was left to 'my daughter Sylvia.' Then everything would have been right. But the absence of the name is fatal. The law will assume that the testator meant his true daughter."
"And am I not his true daughter?" she asked, her lips quivering.
"You are my own darling, Sylvia," murmured Paul, kissing her hair; "don't let us talk of the matter. I'll speak to my lawyer friend, but I fear from the attitude of Pash that Mrs. Krill will make good her claim. Were there a chance of keeping you in possession of the money, Pash would never have left you so easily."
"I am so sorry about the money on your account, Paul."
"My own," he said cheerily, "money is a good thing, and I wish we could have kept the five thousand a year. But I have you, and you have me, and although we cannot marry for a long time yet—"
"Not marry, Paul! Oh, why not?"
"Dearest, I am poor, I cannot drag you down to poverty."
Sylvia looked at him wide-eyed. "I am poor already." She looked round the room. "Nothing here is mine. I have only a few clothes. Mr. Pash said that Mrs. Krill would take everything. Let me marry you, darling," she whispered coaxingly, "and we can live in your garret. I will cook and mend, and be your own little wife."
Beecot groaned. "Don't tempt me, Sylvia," he said, putting her away, "I dare not marry you. Why, I have hardly enough to pay the fees. No, dear, you must go with Debby to her laundry, and I'll work night and day to make enough for us to live on. Then we'll marry, and—"
"But your father, Paul?"