“These are baked beans that are baked beans,” said Meeks.

“Yes, I always have said that Sylvia knows just how to bake beans,” said Henry.  “I go to church suppers, and eat other folks’ baked beans, but they ’ain’t got the knack of seasoning, or something.”

“It’s partly the seasoning and partly the cooking,” said Sylvia, in a somewhat appeased voice.

“This is brown bread, too,” said Meeks.  His flattering tone was almost fulsome.

Henry echoed him eagerly.  “Yes, I always feel just the same about the brown bread that Sylvia makes,” he said.

But the brown bread touched a discordant tone.

Sylvia frowned.  “Mr. Allen always wants it hot,” said she, “and it ’ll be stone cold.  I don’t see where they went to.”

“Here they are now,” said Henry.  He and Meeks cast an apprehensive glance at each other.  Voices were heard, and Horace and Rose entered.

“Are we late?” asked Rose.  She smiled and blushed, and cast her eyes down before Sylvia’s look of sharp inquiry.  There was a wonderful new beauty about the girl.  She fairly 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.”