"I want to clear your 'ead," retorted Miss Junk, "seeing you take no interest in my pretty's livings."
Norman placed his fingers under Sylvia's chin, and tipped it up so that he could gaze into her eyes. "Child, do you love him?" he asked gravely.
"Oh, father!" whispered Sylvia, and said no more. The expression of her eyes was enough for Aaron, and he turned away with a sigh.
"You know nothing about him," he said at length.
"Begging pardon, sir, for being a gabbler," said Deborah, witheringly, "but know what he is we do—a fine young gent with long descents and stone figgers in churches, as Bart knows. Beecot's his par's name, as is fighting with Mr. Paul by reason of contrariness and 'igh living, him being as stout as stout."
"Perhaps you will explain, Sylvia," said Aaron, turning impatiently from the handmaiden.
"I should have explained before," said the girl, quietly and very distinctly. "I loved Paul from the moment I saw him enter the shop six months ago. He came again and again, and we often talked. Then he told me of his love, and I confessed mine. Deborah wanted to know who he was, and if he was a good man. From what I learned of Paul's people he seemed to be all that was good and generous and high-minded and loving. Deborah sent Bart one holiday to Wargrove in Essex, where Paul's parents live, and Bart found that Paul had left home because he wanted to be an author. Paul is very popular in Wargrove, and everyone speaks well of him. So Deborah thought we might be engaged, and—"
"And have you a word to say against it, sir?" demanded Deborah, bristling.
"No," said Aaron, after a pause, "but you should have told me."