"He won't do anything. He consented to our engagement, but solely, I believe, because he thought you were rich. Now, when he knows you are poor—and I wrote to tell him last night—he will forbid the match."
"Paul!" She clung to him in sick terror.
"My sweetest"—he caught her in his arms—"do you think a dozen fathers would make me give you up? No, my love of loves—my soul, my heart of hearts—come good, come ill, we will be together. You can stay with Debby at Jubileetown until I make enough to welcome you to a home, however humble. Dear, be hopeful, and trust in the God who brought us together. He is watching over us, and, knowing that, why need we fear? Don't cry, darling heart."
"I'm not crying for crying," sobbed Sylvia, hiding her face on his breast and speaking incoherently; "but I'm so happy—"
"In spite of the bad news?" asked Paul, laughing gently.
"Yes—yes—to think that you should still wish to marry me. I am poor—I—I—have—no name, and—"
"Dearest, you will soon have my name."
"But Mrs. Krill said—"
"I don't want to hear what she said," cried Paul, impetuously; "she is a bad woman. I can see badness written all over her smiling face. We won't think of her. When you leave here you won't see her again. My own dear little sweetheart," whispered Paul, tenderly, "when you leave this unhappy house, let the bad past go. You and I will begin a new life. Come, don't cry, my pet. Here's Debby."
Sylvia looked up, and threw herself into the faithful servant's arms. "Oh, Debby, he loves me still; he's going to marry me whenever he can."