"Rice," the master said, and held out his hand to the child.
"Lean on me, lean on me hard," pleaded the boy; "thy venerable bones are tired."
"They ache to-day," the octogenarian admitted grimly. "But untie thyself first, my frogling. Thou canst not eat so—we are going to rice, and not into thy beloved snow and ice."
The child slipped out of his fur, and cast it from him. His quick fingers made light work of buttons, clasps and cords. Garment followed garment to the floor, and as they fell servants ran and knelt and picked them up almost reverently, until the boy drew a long free breath, clad only in a flowing robe of thin crimson tussore: a little upright figure, graceful, and for a Chinese boy very thin. Then the old man laid his hand, not lightly, on the young shoulder; and so they went together to their rice.
