incible belief in her
individual right and courage to assert it.

After this clash we walked about till it was time for the evening meal.
It was served in an open tea-house. Hospitable and kind to the last
degree, both host and hostesses pressed upon me every dainty eatable,
and tried by all they knew to dispel the gathering clouds. I was touched
by their efforts and did my best to smooth the way to peace, but my
endeavors were vain. It was a conflict of conditions in which were both
wrong and right, but which not to the end of time would ever be
reconciled.

At last the family sat apart and talked in low tones. Zura moved closer
to me and, though white-lipped and restless after the many encounters
with her grandfather, her spirit was undaunted.

XI

A BROKEN SHRINE

The feast over, we moved on. The servants were left to pack up, and
instructed to join the family at a certain shrine some distance away;
devotions at that place would end the festival.

The closing down of night was like the working of some magic. From every
point of temple, shrine, and tree sprang a light. Fireworks shaped like
huge peonies, lilies, and lesser flowers spluttered in the air. Myriad
lights turned the garden into a place of enchantment. In the hand of
every feaster swung a paper lantern, gay in color, daring in design, its
soft glow reflected on the happy face above. The whole enclosure seemed
to be a bit of fairy land, where workaday people were transformed into
beings made only for the pleasures of life.

I kept close to Zura regardless of where she led, for all she saw seemed
not only to increase her interest, but to intensify her reckless mood.
On our way we paused at a Pagoda. A group of priests were marching
around it chanting some ritual. They were very solemn and their voices
most weird.

"What are they doing with their throats, Miss Jenkins?" asked Zura.

"Singing."

"Singing! Well, they know as much about singing as tit-willows do about
grand opera. But the colors of those gorgeous robes are fascinating.
Aren't the curves of that roof lovely? See how the corners turn up.
Exactly like the mustache of the little band master at home. Oh, look at
those darling kiddies!" she suddenly exclaimed, going swiftly to the
nearby stand of a cake man.

A dozen children or so, wistful-eyed and a bit sad, stood around. These
were the city rats and street waifs, who only came from their holes
after dark. Too poor to buy, they