glowed with it. She was a rose
indeed, full of sunlight and dew, and holding herself, over her
golden heart of joy, with a divine grace and modesty.

Horace did not betray himself as much. He had an expression of
subdued triumph, but his face, less mobile than the girl's, was under
better control. He took his place at the table and unfolded his
napkin.

"I am awfully sorry if we have kept you waiting, Mrs. Whitman," he
said, lightly, as if it did not make the slightest difference if she
had been kept waiting.

Sylvia had already served Rose with baked beans. Now she spoke to
Horace. "Pass your plate up, if you please, Mr. Allen," she said.
"Henry, hand Mr. Allen the brown bread. I expect it's stone cold."

"I like it better cold," said Horace, cheerfully.

Sylvia stared at him, then she turned to Rose. "Where on earth have
you been?" she demanded.

Horace answered for her. "We went to walk, and sat down under a tree
in the orchard and talked; and we hadn't any idea how the time was
passing," he said.

Henry and Meeks cast a relieved glance at each other. It did not
appear that an announcement was to be made that night. After supper,
when Meeks left, Henry strolled down the street a little way with him.

"I'm thankful to have it put off to-night, anyhow," he said. "Sylvia
was all wrought up about their being late to supper, and she wouldn't
have got a mite of sleep."

"You don't think anything will be said to-night?"

"No, I guess not. I heard Sylvia tell Rose she'd better go to bed
right after supper, and Rose said, 'Very well, Aunt Sylvia,' in that
way she has. I never saw a human being who seems to take other
people's orders as Rose does."

"Allen told me he'd got to sit up till midnight over some writing,"
said Meeks. "That may have made a difference to the girl. Reckon she
knew spooning was over for to-day."

Henry looked back at the house. There were two lighted windows on the
second floor. "Rose is going to bed," he said. "That light's in her
room."

"She looked happy enough to dazzle one when she came in, poor little
thing," said Meeks. In his voice was an odd mixture of tenderness,
admiration, and regret. "You've got your wife," he said, "but I
wonder if you know how lonely an old fellow like me feels sometimes,
when he thinks of how he's lived and what he's missed. To think of a
girl having a face like that for a man. Good Lord!"

"You might have got married if you'd wanted to," said Henry.