“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.
“ITS WAVERING IMAGE”
I
Pan was a half white, half Chinese girl. Her mother was dead, and Pan lived with her father who kept an Oriental Bazaar on Dupont Street. All her life had Pan lived in Chinatown, and if she were different in any sense from those around her, she gave little thought to it. It was only after the coming of Mark Carson that the mystery of her nature began to trouble her.
They met at the time of the boycott of the Sam Yups by the See Yups. After the heat and dust and unsavoriness of the highways and byways of Chinatown, the young reporter who had been sent to find a story, had stepped across the threshold of a cool, deep room, fragrant with the odor of dried lilies and sandalwood, and found Pan.