in the friendships which the new light has made possible for us, yet I would that our sons could be brought up in our own country and not in an American Chinatown."
He glanced comprehensively up the street as he said this. A motley throng, made up, not only of his own countrymen, but of all nationalities, was scuffling along. Two little children were eating rice out of a tin dish on a near-by door-step. The singsong voices of girls were calling to one another from high balconies up a shadowy alley. A boy, balancing a wooden tray of viands on his head, was crossing the street. The fat barber was laughing hilariously at a drunken white man who had fallen into a gutter. A withered old fellow, carrying a bird in a cage, stood at a corner entreating passers-by to pause and have a good fortune told. A vender of dried fish and bunches of sausages held noisy possession of the corner opposite.
Liu Venti's glance travelled back to the children eating rice on the doorstep, then rested on the head of his own young son.
"And our fathers' mansions," said he, "are empty of the voices of little ones."
"Let us go home," said Pau Tsu suddenly.
Liu Venti started. Pau Tsu's words echoed
