They called it the Chinese lot.
It was Eleanor who named it and told
Richard laughingly. But even to herself it was not a common, every-day name. It seemed a kind of dream-place, in a faint, happy light, with Chinese dragons chasing across it.
Within twenty-four hours after their decision, the deed for the lot was in Richard’s pocket; and twenty-four hours later the fence between was torn down, and builders were at work on a wall that took in the new lot and made the whole place one.
Eleanor More watched the men with shining eyes. When her work was done she took her sewing-basket and went into the sunshine across the yard, and stepped over the boundary into the new lot. Just beyond the boundary was a great oak-tree, with wide branches and great roots bulging out of the ground. As she sat down under the tree, she noted the roots; the happy thought crossed her mind of children playing there—each great root a playhouse—with little dishes and mud pies.... Her eyes followed the dream, as she unfolded her work and sat sewing, with the light flecking down on her and on the root playhouses and green grass.
Richard More found her there when he came home from work. He went across to see how much had been finished on the wall. Then he came back and stood and watched her swift needle and the light on her hair.
She looked up.
“Nice place!” he said approvingly.
“Yes—I like the roots!” She patted one of them beside her.
He looked at it vaguely.