It was the proudest, happiest moment in his life. A blissful silence encompassed them.
"I haven't much more to read," he said, and added cunningly, "Where did I leave off?"
"You know, Philip."
"No, but tell me."
"'And she loves me,'" she whispered.
"My darling! 'I love your daughter, and she loves me. I cannot make a lady of her, for she is that already, thanks to you.' Isn't that good?" he asked, breaking off.
"Yes. Go on; go on. I want to hear the end."
"'I will do all in my power to make her happy; and I write with her permission, to ask you to allow me to subscribe myself, in every letter that follows this, your affectionate son, Philip Rowe.' There!"
"And how can you see to read such a bold letter, sir? My eyes are as good as yours, and there's no light."
"I did not read with my eyes, dear Margaret."