that shoe. It was an old, easy shoe. She had embroidered it when a child.
"The day grows warm," Wu said presently, rising and bidding her rise. And when she stood before him, he laid his hand a moment on her shoulder and said softly, "Nang Ping!" for she was motherless, and very young, and he loved her still.
"The day grows warm. Go to the easement and tell me if the sun is on the tulip tree." And as she moved away, without a sound he seized the great sword hanging beside the shrine and struck her once.
It was enough.
She scarcely moaned—just a soft quick sigh—and one smothered word.
Wu Li Chang caught the sigh but not the word. Surely Kwanyin Ko had granted something of Nang Ping's prayer, and was merciful to Wu in that. For the Chinese girl had died speaking an English name.
He did not catch the word; but he saw something fall from her dress and roll towards the altar, and he rose and found it—a little scented bead.
And all night long, until the day broke over China, Wu sat motionless and alone in the room where he had played with her often in her baby days, taught her as a child, decorated her fresh young womanhood with gems and love: sat immovable and alone, while the heart's blood of his only child clotted and crusted at his feet.
