"Marriages are made in Heaven, Aunt, and I'm going to wait till I get there. But I'll think it over about coming home to stay."
"I'll be so happy!" the old lady cried. "I'm going right out into the kitchen myself and make one of those cherry pies you used to rave over."
She disappeared; and Warrington laughed, rose and stretched the sleep from his arms and legs, and went up stairs to dress. Yes, he would think it over. There was nothing to hold him in New York, nothing but the craving for noise and late hours. Why not settle down here? There would be plenty to do. Besides, if he lived in Herculaneum he could run over to the Bennington home at any time of day. His cheeks flushed of a sudden.
"Hang it, am I lying to myself about that girl? Is it the knowledge that she'll be my neighbor that inclines me to live here? I know I shall miss her if I stay in New York; I'm honest enough to admit that. God knows I've nothing but honor in my heart for her. Why, I wouldn't even kiss her hand without old Jack's consent. Well, well; the scene in the church Wednesday will solve all doubts—if I have any."
The Sunday luncheon passed uneventfully. The aunt said nothing more about his coming home to stay. She knew her boy; urging would do more harm than good; so she left him to decide freely.
"Is the pie good, Richard?" she asked.
"Fine! Can you spare me another piece?"
"I'm glad you'll never be too proud to eat pie," she returned.
"Not even when it's humble," laughed Warrington.
"There are some folks roundabout who do not think pie is proper," seriously.