While Yung Pak was listening to the conversation between his father and
tutor on this evening, a knock was heard.

On opening the door there was seen standing at the entrance a man rather
poorly clad in the white garments worn by nearly all the people of
Korea. But upon his head, instead of the ordinary cone-shaped hat worn
by the men of the country, was a very peculiar structure. It was made of
straw and was about four feet in circumference. Its rim nearly concealed
the man's face, which was further hidden by a piece of coarse white
linen cloth stretched upon two sticks and made fast just below the eyes.

This method of concealing the face, together with the wearing of the
immense hat, was a symbol of mourning. Such a sight was not uncommon in
the streets of Seoul, and Yung Pak knew well its meaning.

With great courtesy and hospitality Ki Pak invited the stranger within
the house.

"I thank you for your kindness," said the visitor. "I am a stranger in
your city, a monk from a monastery in Kong-chiu. Your peculiar law not
allowing men upon the street after nightfall compels me to seek
shelter."

"To that you are entirely welcome, my friend," said Ki Pak, whose
hospitable nature would have granted the monk's request, even if
sympathy for sorrow and reverence for religion had not also been motives
for his action.

"Let me get the man something to eat," said Yung Pak as the monk seated
himself upon a mat.