“Each night you are to come,” Fong Wu said, as he bade them good-bye. “And soon, very soon, you may go from here to the place from which you came.”
Mrs. Barrett turned at the door. A plea for pardon in misjudging him, thankfulness for his help, sympathy for his exile—all these shone from her eyes. But words failed her. She held out her hand.
He seemed not to see it; he kept his arms at his sides. A “dog of a Chinaman” had best not take a woman’s hand.
She went out, guiding her husband’s footsteps, and helped him climb upon the mustang from the height of the narrow porch. Then, taking the horse by the bridle, she moved away down the slope to the road.
Fong Wu did not follow, but closed the door gently and went back to the ironing-table. A handkerchief lay beside it—a dainty linen square that she had left. He picked it up and held it before him by two corners. From it there wafted a faint, sweet breath.
Fong Wu let it flutter to the floor. “The perfume of a plum petal,” he said softly, in English; “the perfume of a plum petal.”
YEE WING, POWDER-MAN
YEE CHU, wife of Yee Wing, sank low before her husband, resting her clasped hands upon a knee. “Surely, Kwan-yin, the Merciful, has thought me deserving,” she said, “for she has set me down in a place where soft winds blow unceasingly.”
The Powder-man glanced out of the one window of their little home, past the pot of ragged chrysanthemums and the white-and-brown pug that held the sill. “I shall burn an offering to her,” he promised gravely.
“It is so sweetly warm,” she continued, rising and standing at his side; “though the new year is almost upon us. See, I have put off the band of velvet that I wear upon my head of a winter, and changed to these flower-bouquets. Esteemed, will it always be spring-time here?”