He got up and came over to her and bent down. “It is your Chinese coat!” he said. “You didn’t suppose I was going to mortgage your possessions—without letting you know!” “You mean I can have it—the coat!” She had clasped her hands—she was gazing at something far beyond him—far beyond the room, it seemed. He watched her face a minute. “You sure can have your coat—if you want it!” he said softly. She drew a long breath and the light ran back into her face, flooding it. “Oh—!” She threw out her hands. “I don’t want it!—I just wanted to be sure I could want it—if I wanted to!” “I know.” He looked down at her with quiet understanding. “So it is the lot?” he said. “Of course it is the lot! Go and eat your dinner, silly boy!” IV They were not likely to forget the night they decided to buy the lot next door. It seemed the beginning of married life together. To be sure, they had been married nearly a year and they had bought and furnished the house; they had even bought a strip of land on the other side of the house that had come into the market soon after they were married—while they still had a little money to spare. But in all their purchases before, there had been an element that marked them off by themselves. This new purchase was something different—something entered into from choice, and with a free heart. 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. “Fine!” he said. She smiled, but she did not explain. “Why didn’t you ever sit here before?” he demanded, looking about him. The needle paused. “Why—?... We never owned it before!”