m her wrist, came the wife of Anthony
Barrett.

Just across the sill she halted and swept the dim room. A moment, and
the burning eyes fell upon the freighted ironing-table. She gave a
piercing cry.

Fong Wu neither spoke nor moved.

After the first outburst, she was quiet--the quiet that is deliberative,
threatening. Then she slowly closed her fingers about the whip butt.
Fixing her gaze in passionate anger upon him, she advanced a few steps.

_"So it was you,"_ she said, and her voice was hollow.

To that he made no sign, and even his colorless face told nothing.

She came forward a little farther, and sucked in a long, deep breath.
"You _dog_ of a Chinaman!" she said at last, and struck her
riding-skirt.

Fong Wu answered silently. With an imperative gesture, he pointed out
the figure on the ironing-table.

She sprang to her husband's side and bent over him. Presently she began
to murmur to herself. When, finally, she turned, there were tears on her
lashes, she was trembling visibly, and she spoke in whispers.

"Was I wrong?" she demanded brokenly. "I _must_ have been. He's not had
it; I can tell by his quick, easy breathing. And his ear has a faint
color. You are trying to help him! I know! I know!"

A gleaming white line showed between the yellow of Fong Wu's lips. He
picked up a rude stool and set it by the table. She sank weakly upon it,
letting the whip fall.

"Thank God! thank God!" she sobbed prayerfully, and buried her face in
her arms.

[Illustration: "THE PETAL OF A PLUM BLOSSOM."
FROM A PAINTING BY ALBERTINE RANDALL, WHEELAN.]

Throughout the long hours that followed, Fong Wu, from the room's
shadowy rear, sat watching. He knew sleep did not come to her. For now
and then he saw her shake from head to heel convulsively, as he had seen
men in his own country quiver
beneath the scourge of bamboos. Now and then, too, he heard her give a
stifled moan, like the protest of a dumb creature. But in no other ways
did she bare her suffering. Quietly, lest she wake her husband, she
fought out the night.

Only once did Fong Wu look away from her. Then, in anger and disgust his
eyes shifted to the figure on the table. "The petal of a plum
blossom"--he muttered in Chinese--"the petal of a plum blossom beneath
the hoofs of a pig!" And again his eyes dwelt upon the grief-bowed wife.

But when the dawn came stealing up from behind the purple Sierras, and
Mrs. Barrett raised her wan face, he was studiousl