a typewritten letter. Horn Hing read the words:
"Re Chinese child, alleged to be the son of Hom Hing, Chinese merchant, doing business at 425 Clay street, San Francisco.
"Same will have attention as soon as possible."
Hom Hing returned the letter, and without a word continued his manipulation of the counting machine.
"Have you anything to say?" asked the young man.
"Nothing. They have sent the same letter fifteen times before. Have you not yourself showed it to me?"
"True!" The young man eyed the Chinese merchant furtively. He had a proposition to make and he was pondering whether or not the time was opportune.
"How is your wife?" he inquired solicitously—and diplomatically.
Hom Hing shook his head mournfully.
She seems less every day," he replied. "Her food she takes only when I bid her and her tears fall continually. She finds no pleasure in dress or flowers and cares not to see her friends. Her eyes stare all night. I think before another moon she will pass into the land of spirits."
