glance toward his wine-glass. He remembered telling a brilliant story,
and reciting "Old Captain Mau in Vegesack,"--rhymes long forgotten, now
fluent and spontaneous. The applause was a triumph. Through it, as
through a haze, he saw a pair of wide blue eyes shining with startled
admiration.

But the best came when the sun had lowered behind the grove, the company
grown more silent, and Mrs. Forrester, leaning beside the door of the
tower, turned the great pegs of a Chinese lute. The notes tinkled like a
mandolin, but with now and then an alien wail, a lament unknown to the
West. "Sing for us," begged the dark-eyed girl; "a native song." The
other smiled, and bending forward as if to recollect, began in a low
voice, somewhat veiled, but musical and full of meaning. "The Jasmine
Flower," first; then, "My Love is Gathering Dolichos"; and then she
sang the long Ballad of the Rice,--of the husband and wife planting side
by side, the springing of the green blades, the harvest by millions upon
millions of sheaves, the wealth of the State, more fragrant to ancestors
than offerings of spice:--


"...O Labor and Love and hallowed Land!
Think you these things are but still to come?
Think you they are but near at hand,
Only now and here?--Behold.
They were the same in years of old!"


In her plaintive interlude, the slant-eyed servants watched her, nodding
and muttering under the camphor trees.