"And I ain't, for two," said Eli. He cackled a little, but tears rolled down his cheeks.
"I hear him," said Deborah, and pushed past into the house.
She returned in about half an hour, and Wash Townsley was with her. He was clad in a charming little-boy
suit. He even wore silk socks. His fair hair shone. He was a dear little boy, almost a baby boy. He clung fast to
the woman's hand and his face was complex with emotions. It was at once defiant, timid, pleading, sullen,
grateful, shamed, delighted, loving, angry -- everything that a child's face could be when he was utterly
surprised, and uncertain of what might be coming to him.
He stood directly in front of the demolished bush. There was a scared silence. Then a voice like the chirp of a
bird broke it. "I'm sorry I did it," chirped the voice.
Eli and Deborah gazed at each other with a look of awe. For a second it seemed to both of them that they saw
the bush again in its full glory of bloom. Then both faces lit like lamps with tenderness, for they knew they
saw the shining head of the child blooming for them in the place of the bush.
The Outside of the House
Barr Center almost always excited the amusement of strangers. "Why Barr Center?" they would inquire, and
follow up the query, if they were facetious, with another: "The center of what?"
In reality, Barr Center, the little village where lived the Edgewaters, the Ellertons, the Dinsmores, and a few
more very good old New England families, was hardly anything but a center, and almost, regarded
geographically, the mere pin prick of a center of four villages. As a matter of fact, the apex of a triangle would
have been a more accurate description. The village came first on the old turnpike from the city;
Barr-by-the-Sea was on the right, three miles away; Leicester, which had formerly been West Barr, was three
miles to the left; South Barr was three miles to the south.
There was a popular saying that Barr Center was three miles from everywhere. All four villages had, of
course, been originally one, the Precinct of Barr. Leicester had been the first to revolt and establish a separate
township and claim a different name. Leicester was the name of the one wealthy old family of the village,
which had bestowed its soldiers' monument, its town hall, and its library, and had improved the cemetery and
contributed half of the high school.
Barr-by-the-Sea came next, and that had serious and legitimate reasons for individuality. From being a mere
summer colony of tents and rude cottages it had grown to be almost a city, frequented by wealthy city folk,
who had beautiful residences along the shore. Barr-by-the-Sea was so large and important that it finally made
an isosceles triangle of the original Precinct of Barr. All summer long it hummed with gay life, ending in the
autumn with a carnival as a grand crescendo. Barr-by-the-Sea was, however, not the center. It boasted no old
family, resident all the year round, as did Barr Center.
South Barr was the least important of all. It was simply the petering out of the Barrs. It was a little farming
hamlet, which humbly sold butter, fresh eggs, and garden truck to Barr-by-the-Sea for the delectation of the
rich folk who dwelt in the hotels and boarding-houses and stately residences on the ocean front.
Barr-by-the-Sea was an exclusive summer resort. Its few permanent inhabitants were proud of it, and none
were prouder than old Captain Joe Dickson and his wife, Martha. The Dicksons lived in a tiny house beyond
the fashionable limits. They were on the opposite side of the road from the sea. The house stood in a drift of
sandy soil, pierced by coarse beach grass like green swords. Captain Joe, however, had reclaimed a little
garden from the easily conquered waste, and his beans, his cucumbers, and his tomatoes were flourishing.