Deborah laughed and wiped Sylvia's tears away with her coarse apron, tenderly. "You silly flower," she cried caressingly; "you foolish queen of 'oney bees, of course he have you in his 'eart. You'll be bride and I'll be bridesmaid, though not a pretty one, and all will be 'oney and sunshine and gates of pearl, my beauty."
"Debby—I'm—I'm—so happy!"
Deborah placed her young mistress in Paul's arms. "Then let 'im make you 'appier, pretty lily of the valley. Lor', as if anything bad 'ud ever come to you two while silly old Debby have a leg to stan' on an' arms to wash. Though the laundry—oh, lor'!" and she rubbed her nose till it grew scarlet, "what of it, Mr. Beecot, I do ask?"
"Have you enough money to pay a year's rent?"
"Yes, me and Bart have saved one 'undred between us. Rent and furniture and taxes can come out of it, sure. And my washin's what I call washin'," said Deborah, emphatically; "no lost buttings and tored sheets and ragged collars. I'd wash ag'in the queen 'erself, tho' I ses it as shouldn't. Give me a tub, and you'll see if the money don't come in."
"Well, then, Deborah, as I am too poor to marry Sylvia now, I want her to stop with you till I can make a home for her."
"An' where else should she stop but with her own silly, foolish Debby, I'd like to know? My flower, you come an' be queen of the laundry."
"I'll keep the accounts, Debby," said Sylvia, now all smiling.
"You'll keep nothin' but your color an' your dear 'eart up," retorted Debby, sniffing; "me an' Bart 'ull do all. An' this blessed day we'll go to Jubileetown with our belongings. And you, Mr. Beecot?"