“Carry it for me, Dick!”
He moved quickly toward her. “You are tired?” he said tenderly.
“No—I am not tired!” She looked about her. “I am only glad.... It was a long journey, wasn’t it?” She spoke with quiet conviction. “But now it seems short—and easy to find....”
She looked about her again. Her eyes rested wonderingly on the shrine of the Buddha and on the shallow platform with its coffin and the three men standing by it....
“I have been here before, I think—and yet...” She passed her hand across her eyes. “I cannot——”
“Never mind!” He had taken the coat from her and handed it to the interpreter, who was folding it in slow, skilful hands.
The old Chinaman had not stirred from his place, a little to one side. He looked on with impassive gaze.
Richard More glanced at him and a sense of something wonted came to him... a sudden vision of the oak-tree with its great roots protruding from the ground, and the low-swung branches. He moved quickly to the platform. From about his neck he removed the long strings of cash and placed them beside the coffin and from his pocket he took handfuls of the Chinese silver “shoes” that had served them on their journey.... They would not need them now.... He piled them about the coffin.
The old eyes of the Chinaman gazed straight before him. His lips parted in half-spoken words that the interpreter took up, translating softly.
“He will go to the grave of his ancestors.... He is old and his sons are dead.... He will bury this son, the last of his race—” His hand touched the lacquered surface gently. “He will offer worship at the sacred mountain and pay vows before the tomb of his ancestors. The money you have given shall make glad the hearts of his ancestors.”