Mr. Summers took his pipe from the mantel shelf, deliberately knocked the tobacco out of it, refilled it from a generous tobacco can and lit a match. While the match burned he turned toward Sam.
“You can just stake your life I mean it, son,” said he.
“But will Annie Laurie—will the aunts let me?”
The reverend Mr. Summers nodded his long, thin head.
“I’ll tell ’em to,” he said. “Mr. Carson will advise ’em too. You’ll be making reparation, Samuel. You’ll be squaring yourself and your family. You’ll get back what belongs to you, the respect of the community, the regard of your—particular friends. And you’ll live here, in my house, understand?”
“Oh, Mr. Summers, I couldn’t do that.”
“I say you’ll live here,” roared the tall preacher. “Do you think I’d let you go back to that forsaken house and sit there with all the sneaking ghosts of memory putting their miserable noses in the doors and windows o’ nights, making goblin faces at you? Not much. Barbara! Barbara, I say!”
Mrs. Barbara came running on her little feet.
“Absalom,” she whispered excitedly, “what’s the use in waking the baby? Don’t you know any better than that?”
The giant collapsed.