Liu Tsi Chuin was of good family. His name, Tsi Chuin, “Be princely,” would give a hint, at least, of his parents’ goodness of heart. His father was the trusted treasurer of a district magistrate not far from Chengtu. Alas, when Liu was but a child of three the father died. Shortly after, his little sister also died, and Liu and the little widowed mother were left alone. His father, however, had been a man of thrift, so that even after the exorbitant funeral ceremonies were over, enough was left to buy a neat little home on the Great Well Corner in the provincial capital, and even some over to be invested for interest. Little Liu was sent to school. He had friends of his father in official circles. That would mean influence in the days to come, and that position, promotion, power, so hope was high in the little household. At the age of thirteen a change came in Liu’s life. A relative, of whom there are ever plenty in Chinese families, had persuaded the little widow that mints of money might be made by embarking in business. After much persuasion, she yielded. Was not the interest small? And would not her boy need more as he grew older? And was she not ambitious for him? The sums loaned were called in, and the little home mortgaged. Soon a great double shop displayed a new and euphonious name. Big lanterns swung below the eaves. Long boards with letters of gold told of the virtues of the place, while within hams swung from the ceilings, various confections covered the counters and long strings of tobacco lined the shop front close by the street. For five years business went on briskly. By degrees, however, other relatives and friends attached themselves till “the money failed to fill the mouths,” and, in brief, business failed and had to be abandoned. Another venture was made in the then flourishing opium trade, but their capital was limited and larger firms outsold them. Liu was now a youth of twenty. With the little capital left he tried running a sox shop. Alas, in his last venture he had lost more than money. He had lost manhood as well. His countrymen have a proverb, “You can’t work in a dye shop and keep your clothes unstained.” Liu had himself fallen a victim to the opium he sold to others. [Illustration: The evangelist and his family.] The record of his ruin is the old story of China’s sorrow after that. Sucking his pipe, sleeping, sliding about stealthily from spot to spot, seeking relief from the fiend which haunted him by day and by night, he had little time for business, his thoughts were busy with baubles, trade fell off, goods disappeared, his last cash left him, and despair and destruction followed fast. It was during those days that he found himself one of the throng of thoughtless and rowdies, assembled for plum throwing. The sacking of the missions was but a new excitement with a possible gain to all, and what could it matter anyhow to frighten away a few foreigners whom nobody wanted? But that story we have told.