“When Memory sees his face and hears his voice,

The Bird of Love within my heart sings sweetly,

So sweetly, and so clear and jubilant,

That my little Home Bird, Sorrow,

Hides its head under its wing,

And appeareth as if dead.

Shame! Ah, speak not that word to one who loves!

For loving, all my noblest, tenderest feelings are awakened,

And I become too great to be ashamed.”

“You do love me then, eh, Pau Tsu?” queried the young man.

“If it is not love, what is it?” softly answered the girl.

Happily chatting they descended the green hill. Their holiday was over. A little later Liu Venti was on the ferry-boat which leaves every half hour for the Western shore, bound for the Berkeley Hills opposite the Golden Gate, and Pau Tsu was in her room at the San Francisco Seminary, where her father’s ambition to make her the equal in learning of the son of Liu Jusong had placed her.

II

THE LAST LITTLE SCHOLAR OF Pau Tsu’s free class for children was pattering out of the front door when Liu Venti softly entered the schoolroom. Pau Tsu was leaning against her desk, looking rather weary. She did not hear her husband’s footstep, and when he approached her and placed his hand upon her shoulder she gave a nervous start.

“You are tired, dear one,” said he, leading her towards the door where a seat was placed.

“Teacher, the leaves of a flower you gave me are withering, and mother says that is a bad omen.”

The little scholar had turned back to tell her this.

“Nay,” said Pau Tsu gently. “There are no bad omens. It is time for the flower to wither and die. It cannot live always.”

“Poor flower!” compassionated the child.

“Not so poor!” smiled Pau Tsu. “The flower has seed from which other flowers will spring, more beautiful than itself!”

“Ah, I will tell my mother!”

The little child ran off, her queue dangling and flopping as she loped along. The teachers watched her join a group of youngsters playing on the curb in front of the quarters of the Six Companies. One of the Chiefs in passing had thrown a handful of firecrackers amongst the children, and the result was a small bonfire and great glee.

It was seven years since Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had begun their work in San Francisco’s Chinatown; seven years of struggle and hardship, working and waiting, living, learning, fighting, failing, loving—and conquering. The victory, to an onlooker, might have seemed small; just a modest school for adult pupils of their own race, a few white night pupils, and a free school for children. But the latter was in itself evidence that Liu Venti and Pau Tsu had not only sailed safely through the waters of poverty, but had reached a haven from which they could enjoy the blessedness of stretching out helping hands to others.