She pattered into the room with a smile on her face. * * * * * The noon hour had arrived. The rice was steaming in the bowls and a fragrant dish of chicken and bamboo shoots was awaiting Hom Hing. Not for one moment had Lae Choo paused to rest during the morning hours; her activity had been ceaseless. Every now and again, however, she had raised her eyes to the gilded clock on the curiously carved mantelpiece. Once, she had exclaimed: “Why so long, oh! why so long?” Then apostrophizing herself: “Lae Choo, be happy. The Little One is coming! The Little One is coming!” Several times she burst into tears and several times she laughed aloud. Hom Hing entered the room; his arms hung down by his side. “The Little One!” shrieked Lae Choo. “They bid me call tomorrow.” With a moan the mother sank to the floor. The noon hour passed. The dinner remained on the table. III The winter rains were over: the spring had come to California, flushing the hills with green and causing an ever-changing pageant of flowers to pass over them. But there was no spring in Lae Choo’s heart, for the Little One remained away from her arms. He was being kept in a mission. White women were caring for him, and though for one full moon he had pined for his mother and refused to be comforted he was now apparently happy and contented. Five moons or five months had gone by since the day he had passed with Lae Choo through the Golden Gate; but the great Government at Washington still delayed sending the answer which would return him to his parents. * * * * * Hom Hing was disconsolately rolling up and down the balls in his abacus box when a keen-faced young man stepped into his store. “What news?” asked the Chinese merchant. “This!” The young man brought forth a typewritten letter. Hom Hing read the words: “Re Chinese child, alleged to be the son of Hom Hing, Chinese merchant, doing business at 425 Clay street, San Francisco. “Same will have attention as soon as possible.” Hom Hing returned the letter, and without a word continued his manipulation of the counting machine. “Have you anything to say?” asked the young man. “Nothing. They have sent the same letter fifteen times before. Have you not yourself showed it to me?” “True!” The young man eyed the Chinese merchant furtively. He had a proposition to make and he was pondering whether or not the time was opportune. “How is your wife?” he inquired solicitously—and diplomatically. Hom Hing shook his head mournfully. “She seems less every day,” he replied. “Her food she takes only when I bid her and her tears fall continually. She finds no pleasure in dress or flowers and cares not to see her friends. Her eyes stare all night. I think before another moon she will pass into the land of spirits.” “No!” exclaimed the young man, genuinely startled.