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. And that night it was that impression of elusiveness that stopped Harvey's amiable prattle about the weather and took him to her with his arms out. "Sara Lee!" he said. "Don't look like that!" "Like what?" said Sara Lee prosaically. "I don't know," he muttered. "You--sometimes you look as though--" Then he put his arms round her. "I love you," he said. "I'll be good to you, Sara Lee, if you'll have me." He bent down and put his cheek against hers. "If you'll only marry me, dear." A woman has a way of thinking most clearly and lucidly when the man has stopped thinking. With his arms about her Harvey could only feel. He was trembling. As for Sara Lee, instantly two pictures flashed through her mind, each distinct, each clear, almost photographic. One was of Anna, in her tiny house down the street, dragged with a nursing baby. The other was that one from a magazine of a boy dying on a battlefield and crying "Mother!" Two sorts of maternity--one quiet, peaceful, not always beautiful, but the thing by which and to which she had been reared; the other vicarious, of all the world. "Don't you love me--that way?" he said, his cheek still against hers. "I don't know." "You don't know!" It was then that he straightened away from her and looked without seeing at the blur of light which was the phonograph. Sara Lee, glancing up, saw him then as he was in the photograph, face set and head thrust forward, and that clean-cut drive of jaw and backward flow of heavy hair that marked him all man, and virile man. She slipped her hand into his. "I do love you, Harvey," she said, and went into his arms with the complete surrender of a child.