The next lave the root of a tree;”
and as he sang, Nang Ping, with Low Soong, her cousin, in her wake, came slowly from the house, and stood listening too, one finger on her lips, her eyes far on the fading hills.
They did not see their mistress—they were her play-girls, in attendance on rich Wu’s child—until the man had done and gone. But when they did they rushed to her, laughing and pelting her with speech. “Nang Ping! Nang Ping! Come, play with us! Come, play!” But she beat them off, saying, “Go away. I do not want you now. Go away.”
But they clustered the closer and girdled her with their arms, but again she shook them off, repeating impatiently, “Pa choopa, pa choopa;” and realizing that she meant it, they went, tumbling against each other as they ran laughing and singing, and turning as they went, and hurling flowers at her, and crying, “Pu yao choopa,” that they did not wish to go away.
When they had gone the cousins went to the pagoda, looked in it, and then about it, carefully. Then they beat the garden as some careful watchman might some treasure-place of price.
It was growing dusk.
The girls went together to the lotus basin, and stood a long time looking down into its darkling glass. But neither spoke. The brilliant lilies were softer-colored now, turning to pink and blue-greys, and the red few almost to ruddy black.
A long, low whistle pierced through the gloaming from beyond the wall.
Nang Ping’s tiny hand clutched excitedly at her sash. “Soetzo”—“go and watch over the bridge,” she told her cousin quickly. But Low Soong had already gone.
The blackbird whistle came again, nearer, but very soft.