before the counter in the shop he laughed and whistled softly.  With a
wink at the Reverend Minot Weeks who stood by the door leading to the
street, he tapped with his knuckles on the showcase. 

"It has," he said, waving attention to the boy, who was making a mess
of the effort to arrange Uncle Charlie's loaf into a neat package, "a
pretty name.  They call it Norman--Norman McGregor." Uncle Charlie
laughed heartily and again stamped upon the floor.  Putting his finger
to his forehead to suggest deep thought, he turned to the minister.  "I
am going to change all that," he said. 

"Norman indeed! I shall give him a name that will stick! Norman! Too
soft, too soft and delicate for Coal Creek, eh? It shall be
rechristened.  You and I will be Adam and Eve in the garden naming
things.  We will call it Beaut--Our Beautiful One--Beaut McGregor." 

The Reverend Minot Weeks also laughed.  He thrust four ringers of each
hand into the pockets of his trousers, letting the extended thumbs lie
along the swelling waist line.  From the front the thumbs looked like
two tiny boats on the horizon of a troubled sea.  They bobbed and