Sara Lee brought some of Uncle James' things, and was at once set to
work. The women there called Sara Lee capable, but it was to take other
surroundings to bring out her real efficiency.
And it was when bending over a barrel, while round her went on that
pitying talk of women about a great calamity, that Sara Lee got her
great idea; and later on she made the only speech of her life.
That evening Harvey went home in a quiet glow of happiness. He had had
a good day. And he had heard of a little house that would exactly suit
Sara Lee and him. He did not notice his sister's silence when he spoke
about it. He was absorbed, manlike, in his plans.
"The Leete house," he said in answer to her perfunctory question. "Will
Leete has lost his mind and volunteered for the ambulance service in
France. Mrs. Leete is going to her mother's."
"Maybe he feels it's his duty. He can drive a car, and they have no
children."
"Duty nothing!" He seemed almost unduly irritated. "He's tired of the
commission business, that's all. Y'ought to have heard the fellows in
the office. Anyhow, they want to sub-let the house, and I'm going to
take Sara Lee there to-night."
His sister looked at him, and there was in her face something of the
expression of the women that day as they packed the barrel. But she
said nothing until he was leaving the house that night. Then she put
a hand on his arm. She was a weary little woman, older than Harvey,
and tired with many children. She had been gathering up small overshoes
in the hall and he had stopped to help her.
"You know, Harvey, Sara Lee's not--I always think she's different,
somehow."
"Well, I guess yes! There's nobody like her."
"You can't bully her, you know."
Harvey stared at her with honestly perplexed eyes.
"Bully!" he said. "What on earth makes you say that?"
Then he laughed.
"Don't you worry, Belle," he said. "I know I'm a fierce and domineering
person, but if there's any bullying I know who'll do it."
"She's not like the other girls you know," she reiterated rather
helplessly.
"Sure she's not! But she's enough like them to need a house to live in.
And if she isn't crazy about the Leete place I'll eat it."
He banged out cheerfully, whistling as he went down the street. He
stopped whistling, however, at Sara Lee's door. The neighborhood
preserved certain traditions as to a house of mourning. It lowered
its voice in passing and made its calls of condolence in dark clothes
and a general air of gloom. Pianos near by were played only with the
windows closed, and even the milkman leaving his bottles walked on
tiptoe and presented his monthly bill solemnly.