himself on his elbow and listened. She was softly singing a nursery song about some little squirrels and a huntsman. Sankwei wondered at her singing in that way at such an hour. From where he lay he could just perceive the child's cot and the silent child figure lying motionless in the dim light. How very motionless! In a moment Sankwei was beside it.
The empty cup with its dark dregs told the tale.
The thing he loved the best in all the world—the darling son who had crept into his heart with his joyousness and beauty—had been taken from him—by her who had given. Sankwei reeled against the wall. The kneeling figure by the cot arose. The face of her was solemn and tender.
"He is saved," smiled she, "from the Wisdom of the New."
In grief too bitter for words the father bowed his head upon his hands.
"Why! Why!" queried Pau Lin, gazing upon him bewilderedly. "The child is happy. The butterfly mourns not o'er the shed cocoon."
Sankwei put up his shutters and wrote this note to Adah Charlton:
I have lost my boy through an accident. I am returning to China with my wife whose health requires a change.
