From the first Pau Lin had shown no disposition to become Americanized, and Sankwei himself had not urged it. “I do appreciate the advantages of becoming westernized,” said he to Mrs. Dean whose influence and interest in his studies in America had helped him to become what he was, “but it is not as if she had come here as I came, in her learning days. The time for learning with her is over.” One evening, upon returning from his store, he found the little Yen sobbing pitifully. “What!” he teased, “A man—and weeping.” The boy tried to hide his face, and as he did so, the father noticed that his little hand was red and swollen. He strode into the kitchen where Pau Lin was preparing the evening meal. “The little child who is not strong—is there anything he could do to merit the infliction of pain?” he questioned. Pau Lin faced her husband. “Yes, I think so,” said she. “What?” “I forbade him to speak the language of the white women, and he disobeyed me. He had words in that tongue with the white boy from the next street.” Sankwei was astounded. “We are living in the white man’s country,” said he. “The child will have to learn the white man’s language.” “Not my child,” answered Pau Lin. Sankwei turned away from her. “Come, little one,” said he to his son, “we will take supper tonight at the restaurant, and afterwards Yen shall see a show.” Pau Lin laid down the dish of vegetables which she was straining and took from a hook as small wrap which she adjusted around the boy. “Now go with thy father,” said she sternly. But the boy clung to her—to the hand which had punished him. “I will sup with you,” he cried, “I will sup with you.” “Go,” repeated his mother, pushing him from her. And as the two passed over the threshold, she called to the father: “Keep the wrap around the child. The night air is chill.” Late that night, while father and son were peacefully sleeping, the wife and mother arose, and lifting gently the unconscious boy, bore him into the next room where she sat down with him in a rocker. Waking, he clasped his arms around her neck. Backwards and forwards she rocked him, passionately caressing the wounded hand and crooning and crying until he fell asleep again. The first chastisement that the son of Wou Sankwei had received from his mother, was because he had striven to follow in the footsteps of his father and use the language of the stranger. “You did perfectly right,” said old Sien Tau the following morning, as she leaned over her balcony to speak to the wife of Wou Sankwei. “Had I again a son to rear, I should see to it that he followed not after the white people.” Sien Tau’s son had married a white woman, and his children passed their grandame on the street without recognition.