The Amazing Interlude | Page 8

in their better days--the little Howard boy's first trouser suit; the
clothing of a baby that had never lived; big Joe Hemmingway's dress
suit, the one he was married in and now too small for him. And here
and there things that could ill be spared, brought in and offered with
resolute cheerfulness.
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.
So Harvey stopped whistling, rang the bell apologetically, and--faced a
new and vivid Sara Lee, flushed and with shining eyes, but woefully
frightened.

She told him almost at once. He had only reached the dining room of
the Leete house, which he was explaining had a white wainscoting
when she interrupted him. The ladies of the Methodist Church were
going to collect a certain amount each month to support a soup kitchen
as near the Front as possible.
"Good work!" said Harvey heartily. "I suppose they do get hungry,
poor devils. Now about the dining room--"
"Harvey dear," Sara Lee broke in, "I've not finished. I--I'm going over
to run it."
"You are not!"
"But I am! It's all arranged. It's my plan. They've all wanted to do
something besides giving clothes. They send barrels, and they never
hear from them again, and it's hard to keep interested. But with me
there, writing home and telling them, 'To-day we served soup to this
man, and that man, perhaps wounded.' And--and that sort of
thing--don't you see how interested every one will be? Mrs. Gregory
has promised twenty-five dollars a month, and--"
"You're not going," said Harvey in a flat tone. "That's all. Don't talk to
me about it."
Sara Lee flushed deeper and started again, but rather hopelessly. There
was no converting a man who would not argue or reason, who based
everything on flat refusal.
"But somebody must go," she said with a tightening of her voice.
"Here's Mabel Andrews' letter. Read it and you will understand."
"I don't want to read it."
Nevertheless he took it and read it. He