"It's nine o'clock sometimes before he comes home," said Lily; "but I wish he was here. I want to tell him."
Old Wheels read, and Lily worked, for another half an hour, and at the end of that time the old man laid his book aside.
"I shall have to read all this over again," he said, with pretended petulance; "I am sure you have not been attending to me."
"I haven't," she replied, with a happy light in her eyes; "I have been thinking all the while of Felix."
"So I've been reading nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix; and you've heard nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix. Well, well, my darling; I am more than satisfied. Now, then," he said merrily, "come to the window, and look out. It is blowing quite cold, dear child. Let me keep you warm in my arms. Ah, Lily, Lily, now I can die happy when my time comes. But what am I thinking of? To speak of such a subject at such a time! Talk of dying, indeed! I intend to live, and to see my darling's happiness. Ah, God is good!" Then, after a pause, he said, slyly, "But really this is serious--if it's to be nothing but Felix, Felix, Felix! Look along the road--what do you see?"
"Felix," she replied, entering into his humour, and to dispel his sadness; "he's a long way off though, for he'll not be here for an hour and a half. But I see him coming."
"Of course you do. Now look up at the ceiling--what do you see?"
"Felix."
"And into the lamp. What do you see?"
"Felix."