"What we shall eat to-morrow, I haven't the slightest idea!" said Widow
Wang to her eldest son, as he started out one morning in search of work.

"Oh, the gods will provide. I'll find a few coppers somewhere," replied
the boy, trying to speak cheerfully, although in his heart he also had
not the slightest idea in which direction to turn.

The winter had been a hard one: extreme cold, deep snow, and violent
winds. The Wang house had suffered greatly. The roof had fallen in,
weighed down by heavy snow. Then a hurricane had blown a wall over, and
Ming-li, the son, up all night and exposed to a bitter cold wind, had
caught pneumonia. Long days of illness followed, with the spending of
extra money for medicine. All their scant savings had soon melted away,
and at the shop where Ming-li had been employed his place was filled by
another. When at last he arose from his sick-bed he was too weak for
hard labour and there seemed to be no work in the neighbouring villages
for him to do. Night after night he came home, trying not to be
discouraged, but in his heart feeling the deep pangs of sorrow that come
to the good son who sees his mother suffering for want of food and
clothing.

"Bless his good heart!" said the poor widow after he had gone. "No
mother ever had a better boy. I hope he is right in saying the gods will
provide. It has been getting so much worse these past few weeks that it
seems now as if my stomach were as empty as a rich man's brain. Why,
even the rats have deserted our cottage, and there's nothing left for
poor Tabby, while old Blackfoot is nearly dead from starvation."

When the old woman referred to the sorrows of her pets, her