she braided his queue, concerning the white women whom he visited with his father.
It was evening when they returned—Wou Sankwei and his boy. The little fellow ran up to her in high glee. "See, mother," said he, pulling off his cap, "I am like father now. I wear no queue."
The mother looked down upon him—at the little round head from which the queue, which had been her pride, no longer dangled.
"Ah!" she cried. "I am ashamed of you; I am ashamed!"
The boy stared at her, hurt and disappointed.
"Never mind, son," comforted his father. "It is all right."
Pau Lin placed the bowls of seaweed and chickens' liver before them and went back to the kitchen where her own meal was waiting. But she did not eat. She was saying within herself: "It is for the white woman he has done this; it is for the white woman!"
Later, as she laid the queue of her son within the trunk wherein lay that of his father, long since cast aside, she discovered a picture of Mrs. Dean, taken when the American woman had first become the teacher and benefactress of the youthful laundryman. She ran over with it to her husband. "Here," said she;
