When Sir Charles Snow’s letter reached Ho-nan, Sên Ya Tin proclaimed a year of mourning. Every lute was put away. Every woman laid aside her gay rich garments, her stickpins, and her face paints. All the Sêns—women, men and children, and all their people—were clad in hempen sackcloth, and their rice was plainly cooked and scanted.
They gave Sên King-lo his funeral, the funeral of his rank, in the homestead of his fathers.
Sên Ya Tin walked behind a costly empty coffin, weeping, wailing, moaning, tearing her white disheveled hair, and she staggered as she walked.
And all his kindred followed her, and all their priests, servants and peasantry.
On his tomb, when the stone was sealed down above the empty coffin, they spread a princely feast: chicken, soy, lychees, melon, curd, and yellow wine in costly tiny cups—food for the spirit of lord Sên King-lo.
And Sên Ya Tin fasted till she fainted.
But in her heart Sên Ya Tin did not grieve. For she thought that it was better so.
The berries are red upon the holly. There is snow upon the graves. It is quiet in the churchyard.
THE END