"Now what shall I leave with you as security?" asked Felix. "Here are four five-pound notes, here is my watch and chain—"
The landlady rejected them enthusiastically. She only wanted two things as security--his name and his word. He gave them, and thanked her heartily again and again. While the smartest trotting mare out of London was being harnessed, Old Wheels looked at Felix, wistfully, earnestly, humbly. Felix understood him. He put his arm round the old man's shoulder, and said, in a tone of infinite tenderness,
"Dear sir, I never loved Lily as I love her now. I never trusted her as I trust her now. Dear girl! Pure heart! When I lose my faith in her, may I lose my hope of a better life than this!"
His face lighted up as he uttered these words. The old man pressed him in his arms, and sobbed upon his shoulder. The landlady turned aside to have a quiet cry in the corner.
"You're a good young fellow," she said, in the midst of her indulgence, "and I'm glad you came to me."
Before five minutes had passed, they were in the lightest trap and behind the smartest trotting mare out of London, ready to start.
"Here!" cried the landlady. And running to the wheels, she handed up a great parcel of sandwiches and a bottle of brandy. "It's the right stuff," she said, between laughing and crying. "Our own particular!"
The next minute they were on the road to Epsom.