So during the daytime Sara Lee looked--at intervals--at the photograph,

and got that feel of drive and force. And in the evenings Harvey came,

and she lost it. For, outside of a frame, he became a rather sturdy

figure, of no romance, but of a comforting solidity. A kindly young man,

with a rather wide face and hands disfigured as to fingers by much early

baseball. He had heavy shoulders, the sort a girl might rely on to

carry many burdens. A younger and tidier Uncle James, indeed--the same

cheery manner, the same robust integrity, and the same small ambition.

To earn enough to keep those dependent on him, and to do it fairly;

to tell the truth and wear clean linen and not run into debt; and to

marry Sara Lee and love and cherish her all his life--this was Harvey.

A plain and likable man, a lover and husband to be sure of. But-He came that night to see Sara Lee. There was nothing unusual about

that. He came every night. But he came that night full of determination.

That was not unusual, either, but it had not carried him far. He had no

idea that his picture was romantic. He would have demanded it back had

he so much as suspected it. He wore his hair in a pompadour because

of the prosaic fact that he had a cow-lick. He was very humble about

himself, and Sara Lee was to him as wonderful as his picture was to her.

Sara Lee was in the parlor, waiting for him. The one electric lamp was

lighted, so that the phonograph in one corner became only a bit of

reflected light. There was a gas fire going, and in front of it was a

white fur rug. In Aunt Harriet's circle there were few orientals. The

Encyclopaedia Britannica, not yet entirely paid for, stood against the

wall, and a leather chair, hollowed by Uncle James' solid body, was by

the fire. It was just such a tidy, rather vulgar and homelike room as

no doubt Harvey would picture for his own home. He had of course never

seen the white simplicity of Sara Lee's bedroom.

Sara Lee, in a black dress, admitted him. When he had taken off his

ulster and his overshoes--he had been raised by women--and came in,

she was standing by the fire.

"Raining," he said. "It's getting colder. May be snow before morning."

Then he stopped. Sometimes the wonder of Sara Lee got him in the throat.

She had so much the look of being poised for flight. Even in her

quietest moments there was that about her--a sort of repressed

eagerness, a look of seeing things far away. Aunt Harriet said that

there were times when she had a "flighty" look.




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