ing for a worn-out mat, and occasionally, when a workman breaks his sandal cord, I present him with a pair of sandals from this chest; but the things go slowly—slowly.”
“But this,” she added, gently tapping a drawer in a fresh whitewood chest, “belongs to the future. It will be used some day.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“My death-robe.”
“Oh, Sister,” I said earnestly, “please show it to the children. They saw Mother’s, of course, but I had no chance to explain the meaning.”
She opened the drawer and lifted out her shroud. We all sat very quiet, for as it was folded it looked exactly like the one we had placed on Mother. It was made of soft white linen, and instead of a sash, had a narrow band like that of a baby’s first dress, for the belief was that we enter the next world as an infant. The robe was almost covered with texts from the Buddhist scriptures, which had been written by famous priests at various times. A blank strip in front showed that it was not yet finished. Beside the robe lay a small white bag intended to be placed around the neck. It would contain, when all was ready for Sister’s last journey, a tiny package of her baby hair, shaved off at the christening ceremonies when she was eight days old, the dried navel cord, her cut widow-hair, a six-rin coin to pay the ferryman, a death rosary of white wooden beads, and a sacred tablet called “The Heavenly Pass.”
While Sister was re-folding the robe she glanced up at the grave faces of the children and broke into a merry laugh.
“Why so sad, thou solemn-faced ones?” she cried. “Would it not be a disgrace should I receive a telegram to go home and have no suitable dress for the journey?”
“Yes, children,” I added, “it is as natural and common-
