evenly. "My ancestor had only one child, a very beautiful daughter. He worshiped her with more devotion than is common in China—for you know we do not often (unless of pure Manchu blood) esteem daughters so highly as sons. But he was an admirable man—a good neighbor, unselfish, upright, charitable (and—is it not strange?—for all this was before the missionaries came to China), a faithful husband—he was a very devoted father. She was, in your Western phrase, the apple of his eye. Well, one day when the time came for her marriage to a mandarin to whom she was betrothed, her father discovered that she—that her marriage was no longer possible." Basil Gregory's mother was listening now, not listlessly. The ears of a mother's soul are terribly acute. "He dragged from her her lover's name, and then, without a word of reproach or of warning, he slew the being that he loved—with that sword."
The English mother moaned. She understood.
"And after that, her lover too was slain; and not only he, but also his sister, his mother, his entire family. My old sword has drunk deep, Mrs. Gregory," and he drew a finger lovingly along its blade.
"Don't—don't tell me any more," Florence Gregory whispered.
Wu lifted the weapon and laid it across his knee—reverently. "I warned you that it was rather a gruesome story," he said gravely.
"Yes—well," she stumbled, playing still for time, trying to think, "thank Heaven we are more civilized to-day than—than anything so horrible as that!"
Wu smiled. "Much more civilized, no doubt. Methods change; and since I have had the advantage of a European education, if I found myself in such a case, I would not adopt so bloodthirsty a revenge. Indeed I
