er to stand by him, although in his own
sinking heart he felt that Mrs. Beecot was but a frail reed on which to
lean. He finished these letters and posted them before midnight. Then he
went to bed and dreamed that the bad news was all moonshine, and that
Sylvia and he were a happy rich married pair.

But the cold grey searching light of dawn brought the actual state of
things again to his mind and so worried him that he could hardly eat any
breakfast. He spent the morning in writing a short tale, for which he
had been promised a couple of sovereigns, and took it to the office of
the weekly paper which had accepted it, on his way to Gwynne Street.
Paul's heart was heavy, thinking of what he had to tell, but he did not
intend to let Sylvia see that he was despondent. On turning down the
street he raised his head, assumed a smile and walked with a confident
step into the shop.

As he entered he heard a heavy woman plunge down the stairs, and found
his arm grasped by Deborah, very red-faced and very furious, the moment
he crossed the threshold. Bart could be heard knocking boxes together in
the cellar, as he was getting Deborah's belongings ready for removal to
Jubileetown, where the cottage, and the drying ground for the laundry,
had already been secured through Pash. But Paul had no time to ask what
was going on. A glance at the hand-maiden's tearful face revealed that
she knew the worst, in which case Sylvia must also have heard the news.

"Yes," cried Deborah, seeing the sudden whiteness of Paul's cheeks, and
shaking him so much as to hurt his injured arm, "she knows, she do--oh,
lor', bless us that things should come to this--and there she's settin'
a-crying out her beautiful eyes for you, Mr. Beecot. Thinking of your
throwin' her over, and if you do," shouted Deborah, with another shake,
"you'd better ha' bin smashed to a jelly than face me in my presingt
state. Seein' you from the winder I made bold to come down and arsk your
intentings; for if them do mean no marriage and the breaking of my
pretty's 'eart, never shall she set eyes agin on a double-faced Jonah,
and--and--" Here Deborah gasped for breath and again shook Paul.

"Deborah," he said, in a quiet voice, releasing himself, "I love Sylvia
for herself and not for her money."

Deborah threw her brawny arms in the air and her apron over her red
head. "I knowed it--oh, yuss, indeed," she sobbed in muffled tones. "Ses
I, I ses, Mr. Paul's a gentleman whatever