Kingston one Sunday evening seemed absorbed in his dubious books, while Gundred sat at her knitting, an employment by which she piously signalized the Sabbath. All through the week she did fine needlework, but on Sunday she put away her embroideries and conscientiously knitted comforters for the Deep-sea Fishermen. But suddenly Kingston looked up from his page, and began to read in a curious tone of watchful defiance, addressing his secretary, who was inoffensively engaged with a newspaper. ‘Listen to this, Ivor,’ he began, ‘listen to this, and tell me what you think of it.’ Gundred, in her observant silence, noted that her opinion was not asked, and her wrath grew greater and more righteous, chalking up yet another item to the Evil One’s account. ‘“Once upon a time,”’ read Kingston, ‘“many thousands of years ago, there came a great Buddha to a city in India. He was a great and glorious Buddha, but the time is so very far away now that even his name has passed into Nirvana, and cannot be recalled. But all the people in the city wrought their hardest to do him honour. From the King and his nobles downward everyone gave his richest silks and rugs to line the road of the Holy One’s arrival, and in all their land there was not a widow or a little child so poor that they had not some bright pebble or piece of cloth to do their small homage to the Incarnate Perfection. Only one shepherd lad, from the jungle beyond, had nothing to give. He was young and strong and very beautiful, and his whole soul cried out in worship of the Buddha. The most splendid jewel in the world, the most priceless tapestry and cloth of gold, he would not have thought good enough for the honouring of the Holy One; and yet he had nothing, no treasure, however humble, that he could throw beneath the blessed feet. He, that would have given half the world, had not so much as a handful of painted shells. So his heart was very heavy within him, and sadly did he draw near to the city on the appointed day. And on his road there met him a maiden, lovely and gracious, that wore in her hair a flower. But this was such a flower as the boy had never seen before. It was altogether radiant and heavenly, splendid beyond the imagination of man to conceive. It grew in a cluster of seven blooms, and the fragrance of it filled the jungle. If he could only have this wonderful thing to offer to the Heavenly Visitor, then, indeed, thought the boy, he would at least have done no dishonour to the Light that his heart honoured above all else on earth. ‘Maiden,’ he said, ‘for what price will you sell me the flower that you wear in your hair?’ And she answered that for a very great price she would sell him two blossoms from the cluster. And once again his heart was daunted, for the price she asked was more than anything that he could hope to get together in a long laborious life. He shook his head. ‘I had desired,’ he replied, ‘to do fitting honour to the Holy One, but I see now that that hope is