"Yes, child," he said gently, "I believe it. But"--and his voice trembled here, and his gaze grew more wistful--"not mistaken duty. If I had a friend whom I loved, whom I trusted faithfully and implicitly, whom I believed to be honest and true and single-hearted, I should--if such a crisis in the conflict of love and duty should unhappily arise in my life--take counsel from him."
Her eyes drooped before his, and the next moment her face was hidden on his breast again.
"Tell me," she whispered, so softly that he had to bend his head to hear, "do you think that such a crisis has arisen—"
"Go on, my child," he said, in a tone almost as soft as hers, for she had paused suddenly. "Speak what is in your heart."
"Do you think, grandfather, that such a crisis has arisen in the life of any one whom you love very dearly?"
"I do, dear child."
He would have continued the subject, but she begged him, with a tender caress, not to speak for a little while; to let her rest. He called her again his sweet flower, his spring flower, and obeyed her. They remained silent for a long while, and Old Wheels thought she had fallen asleep. But Alfred's light step upon the stairs undeceived him. Immediately Alfred entered the room she went eagerly to his side, and placed her arms round his neck.
"I am so glad you have come, Alfred!"
Alfred returned the kiss she gave him, and asked her why she looked so pale.
"You want excitement, Lil--that's what you want. Wait till the summer comes; I'll take you into the country, and we'll have a regular time of it. Well, now, I've come to give you a bit of change, Lil. I want you to have tea quick and dress yourself out. I've got an order for the theatre."