"Allays purvidin' I don't 'ave to leave the laundry in charge of Bart an' Mrs. Purr, both bein' infants of silliness, one with gin and t'other with weakness of brain. It's well I made Bart promise to love, honor and obey me, Mr. Beecot, the same as you must do to my own lily flower there."
"No, I am to love, honor and obey Paul," cried Sylvia.
"When?" he asked, taking her in his arms.
"As soon as I can stand at the altar," she replied, blushing, whereat Deborah clapped her hands.
"Weddin's an' weddin's an' weddin's agin," cried Mrs. Tawsey, "which my sister Matilder being weary of 'er spinstering 'ome 'ave made up 'er mind to marry the fust as offers. An' won't she lead 'im a dance neither—oh, no, not at all."
"Well, Deborah," said Beecot, "we have much to be thankful for, all of us. Let us try and show our gratitude in our lives."
"Ah, well, you may say that," sighed Mrs. Tawsey, in a devout manner. "Who'd ha' thought things would have turned out so 'appy-like indeed. But you go on with your billin', my lovely ones, and I'll git th' mutting broth to put color int' my pretty's cheeks," and she bustled out.
Sylvia's heart was too full to say anything. She lay in Paul's strong arms, her cheek against his. There she would remain for the rest of her life, protected from storm and tempest. And as they sat in silence, the chimes of an ancient grandfather's clock, Deborah's chief treasure, rang out twice, thrice and again. Paul laughed softly.
"It's like wedding-bells," he whispered, and his future wife sighed a sigh of heart-felt joy.