The doctor put down his hat and glanced at her.

“Wanted a girl, to be named for you?”

“No.  It’s not that.  It’s only—­” She checked herself.  He wouldn’t understand.  The race required girl babies.  “I’ve put a blue bow on my afghan.  Pink is for boys,” she said, and led the way upstairs.

Very simple and orderly was the small house, as simple and orderly as Sara Lee’s days in it.  Time was to come when Sara Lee, having left it, ached for it with every fiber of her body and her soul—­for its bright curtains and fresh paint, its regularity, its shining brasses and growing plants, its very kitchen pans and green-and-white oilcloth.  She was to ache, too, for her friends—­their small engrossing cares, their kindly interest, their familiar faces.

Time was to come, too, when she came back, not to the little house, it is true, but to her friends, to Anna and the others.  But they had not grown and Sara Lee had.  And that is the story.

Uncle James died the next day.  One moment he was there, an uneasy figure, under the tulip quilt, and the next he had gone away entirely, leaving a terrible quiet behind him.  He had been the center of the little house, a big and cheery and not over-orderly center.  Followed his going not only quiet, but a wretched tidiness.  There was nothing for Sara Lee to do but to think.

And, in the way of mourning women, things that Uncle James had said which had passed unheeded came back to her.  One of them was when he had proposed to adopt a Belgian child, and Aunt Harriet had offered horrified protest.

“All right,” he had said.  “Of course, if you feel that way about it—!  But I feel kind of mean, sometimes, sitting here doing nothing when there’s such a lot to be done.”

Then he had gone for a walk and had come back cheerful enough but rather quiet.

There was that other time, too, when the German Army was hurling itself, wave after wave, across the Yser—­only of course Sara Lee knew nothing of the Yser then—­and when it seemed as though the attenuated Allied line must surely crack and give.  He had said then that if he were only twenty years younger he would go across and help.

“And what about me?” Aunt Harriet had asked.  “But I suppose I wouldn’t matter.”

“You could go to Jennie’s, couldn’t you?”

There had followed one of those absurd wrangles as to whether or not Aunt Harriet would go to Jennie’s in the rather remote contingency of Uncle James’ becoming twenty years younger and going away.

And now Uncle James had taken on the wings of the morning and was indeed gone away.  And again it became a question of Jennie’s.  Aunt Harriet, rather dazed at first, took to arguing it pro and con.

“Of course she has room for me,” she would say in her thin voice.  “There’s that little room that was Edgar’s.  There’s nobody in it now.  But there’s only room for a single bed, Sara Lee.”