Sarah laughed. “Fedora is feeding her again. You may see her when she has taken her nourishment.”

Lauretta shook her head against the pillow. “I don’t want to.”

“Of course you do, but not until we decide upon a name.”

Lauretta shrugged.

Waiting another moment, Sarah said, “If you haven’t settled on one, may it be Mama’s?”

“If you like,” Lauretta said absently.

Lovey looked down at her frowning, then at Sarah, frowning harder. “You can close the curtains, but not all the way.” She picked up the tray and went out.

The mother, fed, closed her eyes and slept again. Sarah moved over to Juanita and Fedora. The baby’s mouth had relaxed, her eyes were closed. She too had eaten; she too would sleep. Juanita took her gingerly from Fedora and cradled her in her arms. Fedora buttoned her dress and left them.

As Juanita held the baby close, looking down at her and swaying her gently, Sarah whispered, “Her name is Rachel.”

Juanita smiled and nodded, as if she had been reminded of something she had known all along.

Sarah took a candle to light her way through the hall and down the stairs, but when she closed the door of Lauretta’s room behind her, Leon, who had been waiting at the cracked door of their room, called, “Sarah?” and she hurried into the room with him.

“Are you all right?” she asked, closing the door.

He leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead, taking the candle from her and setting it down on a side table. “‘Are you all right?’” he repeated her words self-mockingly. “Oh, Sarah, why don’t you scream and curse me for a weak fool? It’s I who ought to ask, ‘Are you all right?’ If only you were not so good, if you would punish me a little for all the poor things I do!”

By this time she had observed that he needed to shave, and that his clothes were untidy. If he had not slept in them, they nevertheless showed evidence that he had worn them for two days. However, he appeared to be quite sober.

“The child was born this morning. Lauretta has had a bad time, but seems to be resting now, although in depressed spirits. We have only now given the little girl a name—Rachel, for our mother who died when we were so young.”

“Sarah!” His voice choked on her name, and he wept.

“Leon, my dear—” She put her arms around him, and he let her, taking comfort in her strength and closeness, surrendering to the luxury of remorse.

“It should have been your child!” he said.

“Well,” she said softly, at a loss.

“If only it were!”

“Well, she isn’t, and we must see that she has good care. I speak of her as ‘she’ not ‘it,’ you see? She is already real to me.”