tic, and many of the females are themselves not devoid of
beauty, as beauty goes among the Mongols. Particularly do I notice one
to-day, whose tiny, doll-like extremities are neatly bound with red,
blue, and green ribbon; her face is a picture of refinement, her
head-dress a marvel of neatness and skill, and her whole manner and
make-up attractive. Unlike her timid and apprehensive sisters of
yesterday, she sees nothing in me to be afraid of; on the contrary, she
comes and sits beside ine on the bench and makes herself at home with the
peanuts and sweets I purchase, and laughs merrily when I offer to give
her a ride on the bicycle.

The sun is sinking behind the mountains to the west when we approach the
city of Ki-ngan-foo, its northern extremity marked by a very ancient
pagoda now rapidly crumbling to decay. The city forms a crescent on the
west bank of the Kan-kiang, the main street running parallel with the
river for something like half a mile before terminating at the walls of
the Manchu quarter.

The fastidious gentleman at the rear has betrayed symptoms of a very
uneasy state of mind during the afternoon, and now, as he halts the
procession a moment to turn the bull's-eye side of his coat outward, and
to put on his shoes, he gives me a puzzled, sorrowful look and shakes his
head dolefully. The trickiness of former acquaintances causes me to
misinterpret this display of emotion into an hypocritical assumption of
sorrow at the near prospect of our parting company, with ulterior designs
on the nice long strings of tsin he knows to be in my leathern case. It
soon becomes evident, however, that trouble of some kind is anticipated
in Ki-ngan-foo, for he points to my revolver and then to the city and
solemnly shakes his head.

The crescent water-front, the broad blue river and white sand, the plain
dotted with smiling villages opposite, the tall pagodas, the swarms of
sampans with their quaint sails, form the composite parts of a very
pretty and striking picture, as seen from the northern tip of the
crescent.

Near the old ruined pagoda the rear-guard points in an indifferent sort
of a way to a substantial brick edifice surmounted by a plain wooden
cross. Ah! a Jesuit mission, so help me Pius IX! now shall I meet some
genial old French priest, who will make me comfortable for the night and
enlighten me in regard to my bearings, distances, and other subjects
about which I am in a very thick fog. Instead of the fifty