"Well, sir," she said, folding her arms and scratching her elbow, "I do think as offspring ain't lumps of dirt to be trod on in this way. I arsk"—she flung out her hand towards Sylvia—"Is she your own or is she not?"
"She is my daughter," said Aaron, mildly. "Why do you ask?"
"'Cause you don't take interest you should take in her marriage, which is made in heaven if ever marriage was."
Norman raised his head like a war-horse at the sound of a trumpet-call. "Who talks of marriage?" he asked sharply.
"Dear father," said Sylvia, gently, "did you not hear? I love Paul, and I want to marry him."
Aaron stared at her. "He is not a good match for you," was his reply.
"He is the man I love," cried Sylvia, tapping with her pretty foot.
"Love," said Norman, with a melancholy smile, "there is no such thing, child. Talk of hate—for that exists," he clenched his hands again, "hate that is as cruel as the grave."
"Well I'm sure, sir, and what 'ave hates to do with my beauty there? As to love, exist it do, for Bart's bin talked into filling his 'eart with the same, by me. I got it out of a Family Herald," explained Deborah, incoherently, "where gentry throw themselves on their knees to arsk 'ands in marriage. Bart was down on his hunkers every night for two weeks before he proposed proper, and I ses, ses I—"
"Will you hold your tongue?" interrupted Aaron, angrily; "you gabble gabble till you make my head ache. You confuse me."