"We should," admitted Sylvia, quickly, "but Paul and I feared lest you should say 'No.'"
"My child," said the old man, gravely, "so long as you wed a kind and good man I have nothing to say. Sylvia, I have worked hard these many years and have made much money, which, by will, I have left to you. When I die you will be rich. He is poor."
"Paul—yes, he is poor. But what of that?"
"Many fathers might think that an objection," went on Aaron without noticing her remark. "But I do not. You shall marry Paul before I go to America."
"Lor'!" cried Deborah, "whatever are you a-goin' there for, sir?"
"That's my business," said Aaron, dryly, "but I go as soon as I can. I have sold the books; and the furniture of these rooms shall be disposed of before the end of the week. My gems I take to Amsterdam for sale, and I go abroad next week. When I return in a fortnight you can marry Mr. Beecot. He is a good young man. I quite approve of him."
Deborah snorted. "Seems to me as though you was glad to get quit of my pretty," she murmured, but too low to be overheard.
"Oh, father," cried Sylvia, putting her arms round Norman's neck, "how good you are! I do love him so."
"I hope the love will continue," said her father, cynically, and removing the girl's arms, to the secret indignation of Deborah. "I shall call on Mr. Beecot to-morrow and speak to him myself about the matter. If we come to an arrangement, for I have a condition to make before I give my entire consent, I shall allow you a certain sum to live on. Then I shall go to America, and when I die you will inherit all my money—when I die," he added, casting the usual look over his shoulders. "But I won't die for many a long day," he said, with a determined air. "At least, I hope not."
"You are healthy enough, father."