Cold and weary, she cast herself upon the bed, still folding the bird to her heart. “It may be Ruky! It is all I ask,” she sobbed. “I dare not ask for more.” Suddenly she felt a peculiar stirring. The crow seemed to grow larger. Then, in the dim light, she felt its feathers pressing lightly against her cheek. Next, something soft and warm wound itself tenderly about her neck, and she heard a sweet voice saying: “Don’t cry, Cor,—I’ll be good.” She started up. It was, indeed, her own darling! The starlight shone into the room. Lighting her candle, she looked at the clock. It was just two hours since she had uttered those cruel words! Sobbing, she asked: “Have I been asleep, Ruky, dear?” “I don’t know, Cor. Do people cry when they’re asleep?” “Sometimes, Ruky,” clasping him very close. “Then you have been asleep. But Cor, please don’t let Uncle whip Ruky.” “No, no, my little bird—I mean, my brother. Good night, darling!” “Good night.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ THE SOUL OF THE GREAT BELL[2] By LAFCADIO HEARN _She hath spoken, and her words still resound in his ears._ _Hao-Khieou-Tchouan: c. ix._ Footnote 2: From _Some Chinese Ghosts_. Copyright, 1887, by Little, Brown & Company. THE water-clock marks the hour in the _Ta-chung sz’_,—in the Tower of the Great Bell: now the mallet is lifted to smite the lips of the metal monster,—the vast lips inscribed with Buddhist texts from the sacred _Fa-hwa-King_, from the chapters of the holy _Ling-yen-King_! Hear the great bell responding!—how mighty her voice, though tongueless!—_KO-NGAI!_ All the little dragons on the high-tilted eaves of the green roofs shiver to the tips of their gilded tails under that deep wave of sound; all the porcelain gargoyles tremble on their carven perches; all the hundred little bells of the pagodas quiver with desire to speak. _KO-NGAI_!—all the green-and-gold tiles of the temple are vibrating; the wooden goldfish above them are writhing against the sky; the uplifted finger of Fo shakes high over the heads of the worshippers through the blue fog of incense! _KO-NGAI!_—What a thunder tone was that! All the lacquered goblins on the palace cornices wriggle their fire-colored tongues! And after each huge shock, how wondrous the multiple echo and the great golden moan and, at last, the sudden sibilant sobbing in the ears when the immense tone faints away in broken whispers of silver,—as though a woman should whisper, “_Hiai!_” Even so the great bell hath sounded every day for well-nigh five hundred years,—_Ko-Ngai_: first with stupendous clang, then with immeasurable moan of gold, then with