to such frail conveyance and such intelligent motive power, you would surrender yourself, feeling, I trust, that you had done well.
But, if you should, unwisely, ask yourself afterward why you had chosen him rather than one of his more goodly fellows, you would be a little puzzled for a reason—if you cared for reasons. It was not because he would carry you for less than they,—whatever you chose to give, and with greater despatch (were you minded to hurry rather than kill the lazy days). These you would not at that time have learned. You would, in fact, be left without an adequate motive. And this, if you must always have motives, would be vexatious. For there would be left you but an indefinable sense of faithfulness, and a vague, necessitous beseeching which Kito had somehow inspired. And perhaps you noted this the more because he did not solicit you—only looked at you as a vagrant dog looks. You would probably end by declaring a truce to sentiment, which you found persistently attaching itself to your coolie,—entirely without his connivance, you would admit,—and you would not keep the truce. Nothing is so insidious as sentiment. And
