"Without the spur of poverty you'll never make a hit," grinned the old gentleman. "However, you can live where you please. It's no business of mine but I demand, as your indulgent father, that you'll bring Sylvia down here at least three times a year. Whenever she is well I want to see her."
"I'll bring her next week," said Paul, thinking of his mother. "But Deborah must come too. She won't leave Sylvia."
"The house is big enough. Bring Mrs. Tawsey also—I'm rather anxious to see her. And Sylvia will be a good companion for your mother."
So matters were arranged in this way, and when Paul returned to town he went at once to tell Sylvia of the reconciliation. He found her, propped up with pillows, seated by the fire, looking much better, although she was still thin and rather haggard. Deborah hovered round her and spoke in a cautious whisper, which was more annoying than a loud voice would have been. Sylvia flushed with joy when she saw Paul, and flushed still more when she heard the good news.
"I am so glad, darling," she said, holding Paul's hand in her thin ones. "I should not have liked our marriage to have kept you from your father."
Mrs. Tawsey snorted. "His frantic par," she said, "ah, well, when I meet 'im, if he dares to say a word agin my pretty—"
"My father is quite ready to welcome her as a daughter," said Paul, quickly.
"An' no poor one either," cried Deborah, triumphantly. "Five thousand a year, as that nice young man Mr. Ford have told us is right. Lor'! my lovely queen, you'll drive in your chariot and forget Debby."
"You foolish old thing," said the girl, fondly, "you held to me in my troubles and you shall share in my joy."