“He that hath wine hath many friends,” muttered Koan-lo the Second, as he glanced backwards into the store out of which he was stepping. It was a Chinese general store, well stocked with all manner of quaint wares, and about a dozen Chinamen were sitting around; whilst in an adjoining room could be seen the recumbent forms of several smokers who were discussing business and indulging in the fascinating pipe during the intervals of conversation. Noticeable amongst the smokers was Koan-lo the First, a tall, middle-aged Chinaman, wearing a black cap with a red button. Koan-lo the First was cousin to Koan-lo the Second, but whereas Koan-lo the Second was young and penniless, Koan-lo the First was one of the wealthiest Chinese merchants in San Francisco and a mighty man amongst the people of his name in that city, who regarded him as a father. Koan-lo the Second had been instructed by Koan-lo the First to meet Sie, the latter’s bride, who was arriving that day by steamer from China. Koan-lo the First was too busy a man to go down himself to the docks. So Koan-lo the Second and Sie met—though not for the first time. Five years before in a suburb of Canton City they had said to one another: “I love you.” Koan-lo the Second was an orphan and had been educated and cared for from youth upwards by Koan-lo the First. Sie was the daughter of a slave, which will explain why she and Koan-lo the Second had had the opportunity to know one another before the latter left with his cousin for America. In China the daughters of slaves are allowed far more liberty than girls belonging to a higher class of society. “Koan-lo, ah Koan-lo,” cooed Sie softly and happily as she recognized her lover. “Sie, my sweetest heart,” returned Koan-lo the Second, his voice both glad and sad. He saw that a mistake had been made—that Sie believed that the man who was to be her husband was himself—Koan-lo the Second. And all the love that was in him awoke, and he became dizzy thinking of what might yet be. Could he explain that the Koan-lo who had purchased Sie for his bride, and to whom she of right belonged, was his cousin and not himself? Could he deliver to the Koan-lo who had many friends and stores of precious valuables the only friend, the only treasure he had ever possessed? And was it likely that Sie would be happy eating the rice of Koan-lo the First when she loved him, Koan-lo the Second? Sie’s little fingers crept into his. She leaned against him. “I am tired. Shall we soon rest?” said she. “Yes, very soon, my Sie,” he murmured, putting his arm around her. “I was too glad when my father told me that you had sent for me,” she whispered. “I said: ‘How good of Koan-lo to remember me all these years.’” “And did you not remember me, my jess’-mine flower?” “Why need you ask? You know the days and nights have been filled with you.” “Having remembered me, why should you have dreamt that I might have forgotten you?”