"A warning from the dead,” he muttered, "a warning from the dead!"
An iron hand gripped O’Yam’s heart. Life itself seemed to have closed upon her.
IV
𝕀t was afternoon before evening, and the fog was rolling in from the sea. Quietness reigned in the plot of ground sacred to San Francisco’s Chinese dead when Fou Wang deposited a bundle at the foot of his mother’s grave and prepared for the ceremony of ministering to her three souls.
The fragrance from a wall of fir trees near by stole to his nostrils as he cleared the weeds and withered leaves from his parent’s resting place. As he placed the bowls of rice and chicken and the vase of incense where he was accustomed to place it, he became dimly conscious of a presence or presences behind the fir wall.
He sighed deeply. No doubt the shade of his parent was restless, because—
"Fou Wang,” spake a voice, low but distinct.
The young man fell upon his knees.
"Honored Mother!" he cried.
"Fou Wang," repeated the voice, "though my name is on thy lips, O’Yam’s is in thy heart."
