and cried and refused to go, but in the end he was taken away by his father. Later he sent me by his father a package of sea shells and a few pretty feathers. I, too, sent things to him once or twice, but I had not seen him since.
So when my mother spoke of him, my childhood memories were revived in a lightning flash and my native heath again assumed the beauty that my memories had always clothed it with.
"That's excellent!" I said. "How—how is he?"
"Well, his circumstances are not very happy," my mother answered. As she looked toward the yard, she cried, "There are those people again. They come here under the pretext of buying furniture but they are apt to help themselves to things when no one is looking. I must go and keep an eye on them."
She got up and went out. There were women's voices outside. I called Hung-erh to me and talked with him: I asked him whether he could write, whether he would like to go away.
"Shall we ride in a train?"
"Yes, we'll ride in a train."
"How about boats?"
"We'll take a boat first."
"Ha! So this is he! and what a beard he has grown!" A sharp, raucous voice suddenly broke in.
I looked up, startled, and saw before me a woman of around fifty years with high cheekbones and thin lips, her arms akimbo. She wore no skirt and her feet stuck out like a pair of compasses such as draftsmen use.
I looked puzzled.
"Don't you know who I am? I used to hold you in my arms!"
