“Thou wilt cleave to her then, my son?” Ya Tin asked gravely, as they sat alone at midnight conference. “While I live,” Sên King-lo answered. “Yet it tortures thee to go.” “It tortures me,” he said. “When do you wish to go?” Ya Tin asked calmly. “Soon,” King-lo pleaded. “Dismiss me soon, O Mother, I entreat thee. The lingering is hard.” “And if I will _not_ dismiss thee—will not dismiss thee ever, Sên King-lo, or release thee from the obedience and fealty thy ancestors have sworn of thee? But chain thee to my side, and to thy place of heritage where thou belongest, where thy spirit will be, no matter where or how thy bones will go? What then?” Sên King-lo held her eyes with his, but he made no other answer, neither spoke nor moved. They sat so while the water-clock dripped slowly in their silence. At last the Chinese grandam laughed, leaning a little towards him, mocking him with her eyes; a grim, gray crackle of laughing. “Thou wilt disobey me, if I forbid thee go! And I am Sên Ya Tin, and thou art Sên King-lo!” Still he neither spoke nor moved. But his soul gave her soul answer, and her stern soul met his and hailed it. Still a time she let the water-clock drip and the silence keep between them as they sat with nothing else between them but the tiny, low table of her pipes’ lacquered tray. “Enough!” she spoke at last. “Go! And go in peace, Sên King-lo, first-born of my first-born. I have other sons of our race. But thou shalt go richer than thou camest. Much of thy heritage shall go with thee. Nay!”—as his lips moved to frame a word, his hand gestured towards protest—“it is my will. I will not brook it otherwise; for thou art the son of the dearest thing I ever suckled or quietened in my arms, and it is punishment enough for thee that thou must go, must go from China.” Sên’s face quivered.