But, oh! the humiliation and shame of bearing children to a man who looked up to another woman—and a woman of another race—as a being above the common uses of women. There is a jealousy of the mind more poignant than any mere animal jealousy. When Wou Sankwei’s second child was two weeks old, Adah Charlton and her aunt called to see the little one, and the young girl chatted brightly with the father and played merrily with Yen, who was growing strong and merry. The American women could not, of course, converse with the Chinese; but Adah placed beside her a bunch of beautiful flowers, pressed her hand, and looked down upon her with radiant eyes. Secure in the difference of race, in the love of many friends, and in the happiness of her chosen work, no suspicion whatever crossed her mind that the woman whose husband was her aunt’s protégé tasted everything bitter because of her. After the visitors had gone, Pau Lin, who had been watching her husband’s face while the young artist was in the room, said to him: “She can be happy who takes all and gives nothing.” “Takes all and gives nothing,” echoed her husband. “What do you mean?” “She has taken all your heart,” answered Pau Lin, “but she has not given you a son. It is I who have had that task.” “You are my wife,” answered Wou Sankwei. “And she—oh! how can you speak of her so? She, who is as a pure water-flower—a lily!” He went out of the room, carrying with him a little painting of their boy, which Adah Charlton had given to him as she bade him goodbye and which he had intended showing with pride to the mother. It was on the day that the baby died that Pau Lin first saw the little picture. It had fallen out of her husband’s coat pocket when he lifted the tiny form in his arms and declared it lifeless. Even in that first moment of loss Pau Lin, stooping to pick up the portrait, had shrunk back in horror, crying: “She would cast a spell! She would cast a spell!” She set her heel upon the face of the picture and destroyed it beyond restoration. “You know not what you say and do,” sternly rebuked Sankwei. He would have added more, but the mystery of the dead child’s look forbade him. “The loss of a son is as the loss of a limb,” said he to his childless partner, as under the red glare of the lanterns they sat discussing the sad event. “But you are not without consolation,” returned Leung Tsao. “Your firstborn grows in strength and beauty.” “True,” assented Wou Sankwei, his heavy thoughts becoming lighter. And Pau Lin, in her curtained balcony overhead, drew closer her child and passionately cried: “Sooner would I, O heart of my heart, that the light of thine eyes were also quenched, than that thou shouldst be contaminated with the wisdom of the new.” V