"No, but she'll be here in the morning to get breakfast. We don't want anything to eat," she answered.
"Then I'll come out when I'm through my business, to-night, and sleep in the house to keep you company."
"Nonsense," said the mother, "we couldn't think of putting you to the trouble. We've spent many a night here alone."
"But not in the past two years," he said, with a frown.
"We're not afraid," Marion said, with a smile. "Besides, we'd keep you awake all night with our laughter and foolishness, rummaging through the house."
"You'd better let me," Ben protested.
"No," said the mother, "we'll be happier to-night alone with only God's eye to see how perfectly silly we can be. Come and take supper with us to-morrow night. Bring Elsie and her guitar—I don't like the banjo—and we'll have a little love-feast with music in the moonlight."
"Yes, do that," cried Marion. "I know we owe this good luck to her. I want to tell her how much I love her for it."
"Well, if you insist on staying alone," said Ben, reluctantly, "I'll bring Miss Elsie to-morrow, but I don't like your being here without Aunt Cindy to-night."
"Oh, we're all right!" laughed Marion, "but what I want to know is what you are doing out so late every night since you've come home, and where you were gone for the past week?"
"Important business," he answered, soberly.
"Business—I expect!" she cried. "Look here, Ben
