CHINA, in its vastness, its mystery, its permanence, its ceaseless ebb and flow of myriad, uncounted life, suggests the ocean. The surface is restless, ripped by universal family discord, whipped by gusts of passion from tong or tribe, upheaved by political storms, but everywhere in the unsounded depths lies the peace of submissiveness. Within its boundaries breathes sufficient power to overwhelm the world, yet only on the self-conscious surface is this power sensed and slightly used. Chinese life, in city and village, as in the teeming countryside, moves in disorganized poverty about its laborious daily tasks, little more aware of the surface political currents than are Crustacea at the bottom of the sea of ships passing overhead; while to these patient minds the mighty adventure of the Western World is no more than a breath upon the waters.

This simile found a place among the darker thoughts of Griggsby Doane as he tramped down into the fertile valley of the Han. Behind him lay tragedy; yet on every hand the farmers were at work upon the narrow holdings that terraced the red hills to their summits. At each countryside well the half-naked coolies—two, three, or four of them—were turning windlasses and emptying buckets of water into stone troughs from which trickled little painstakingly measured streams to the sunbaked furrow of this or that or another field. The trains of asses anil camels wound ceaselessly up and down the road that led from the northern hills to T'ainan. The roadside vendors and beggars chanted their wares and their grievances. The villages, always indolent, lived on exactly as always, stirred only by noisy bargains or other trivial excitement. The naked children tumbled about. It w as hard to believe that here could be—had so lately been—violence and cruelty. It was simply one of the occasions, evidently, when no Lookers or hostile young men happened to be about to shout their familiar taunts at the white devil. Though the fighting of 1900, for that matter, had passed like a wave, leaving hardly more trace. Still more, at dusk, the outskirts of the great city stirred perplexing thoughts. The quiet of a Chinese evening was settling on shops and homes. Children's voices carried brightly over compound walls. Kites flew overhead. The music of stringed instalments floated pleasantly, faintly, to the ear.

And every quaint sight and sound was registered with a fresh vividness on Doane's highly strung nerves. He was tired; might easily, too easily, become irritable; a fact he sensed and struggled to guard against. Now, of all occasions in his life, he must exercise self-control. Difficult tasks lay directly ahead. One would be the talk with Pao Ting Chuan about the So T'ung massacre. Pao was, in his Oriental way, friendly; but his way was Oriental. It would be necessary to meet him at every evasive turn; necessary to read behind every courteous speech of a cultivated and charming gentleman the complex motivation of a mandarin skilled in the intricate relationships of the Court of Peking. Helping avert trouble was one matter; Pao could doubtless, or apparently, be counted on to that extent; but assuming full responsibility for the taking of white life and the destruction of white man's property, was a vastly more complicated matter. No other sort of human creature is so skilful at evading responsibility as the Chinaman; this, perhaps, because responsibility, once accepted, is, under the Chinese tradition and system, inescapable.... Another task, of course, would be the telling Boatwright of his personal disaster. It still seemed better to do this before the news could drift around in some vulgar, disruptive way from Shanghai. He couldn't plan this talk, not yet; but a way would doubtless present itself. He stood before his God, in his own strong heart, convicted of sin. There had been moments, during the tramp southward, when he found himself welcoming this nearly public self-arraignment with a bitter eagerness. But at such moments pictures of Betty rose in his mind, and of the gentle beautiful wife of his youth—wistful, delicately traced pictures.

His face would change then; the lines would deepen and a look of torment, of wild hurt animal strength that was new, would appear in and about his deep-shaded eyes.

2

As he drew near the mission compound his stride shortened and slowed. Once he stopped, and for a brief bme stood motionless, not heeding the curious Chinese who passed (dim figures with soft-padded shoes), his lips drawn tightly together over nervous mutterings that nearly, once or twice, came out as sounds. He was not a man who talks out overwrought feelings on the public way. The tendency alarmed him.

He came deliberately into the gate house. Here, talking in some excitement with old Sun, were four or five of the servants.

He paused to ask what was the matter. To take hold again, to step so quickly into his position as head of the compound, brought a sense of relief. That would be habit functioning. A moment later, his confusion was deeper than before; in one of those quick flashes that can illuminate and occupy the inner mind while the outer is engaged with the brisk affairs of life, he was wondering how soon these men would know what he was, what pitiful sort he had overnight become; and what they would think of him, they who now obeyed and loved him.

'They told him the gossip of the streets. Those strange soldiers, Lookers, from beyond the western mountains, had been coming of late to the yamen of old Kang Hsu. Kang, so ran the local story, had reviewed these troops within the twelve hours, witnessing their incantations, giving them his approval.

Doane said what little he could to quiet their fears; he even managed a rather austere smile; then passed on into the courtyard.

Dr. Cassin came slowly down the steps from the dispensary, her keys jingling in her hand. She was a spare, competent woman, deeply consecrated to her work, but not lacking in kindliness.

“Oh, Mr. Doane!” she said. Then, “How did you find things at So T'ung?”

He stood a moment, looking at her.

“Very bad,” he said.

“Not—well—”

Doane inclined his head. “Yes, Jen is gone—and twelve to fifteen others. Shot or burned. One helper escaped. I could get word of no others. One of Monsieur Pourmont's engineers helped very bravely in the defense, but was finally clubbed to death.”

Dr. Cassin stood silent; then drew in her breath sharply. The keys jingled.

“Oh!” she murmured in a broken voice, “That is bad!”

“It couldn't be worse. How is it here?”

“Well”—she pursed her lips—“I'm afraid we've all been getting a little nervous. It's well you're back. We need you. The servants are jumpy....”

“I gathered that, in the gate house.”

“I wonder... in the fighting at So T'ung there must have been a good many wounded...

“Among the attackers, yes; the Lookers themselves, and village rowdies.”

“I was wondering... mightn't it be a good thing for me to go up there and take charge?”

“No.”

“For the effect it might have on the people, I mean. Wouldn't it help restore their confidence in us?”

“No, Doctor. The people—except the young men—haven't changed. Trouble will come wherever the Lookers go. No, your place is here.”

Once in the mission residence, Doane hurried up the two flights of stairs to his own rooms. He met no one; the door of Boatwright's study was closed.

So they needed him. The strain was shaking their monde a little. It was really not surprising, after 1900. But if they needed him it was no time to indulge his own emotions. He would have to take hold again, that was all; perhaps keep hold, letting the news that was to be to him so evil come up as it might. He sighed as he closed his door. Some sort of a scene there must be; at least a talk with the Boatwrights about So T'ung and about the local problem.... One thing he could do; remove his dusty clothing, wash, put on fresh things. It would help a little, just the physical refreshment. He went back to the door and locked it..... Boatwright would be up, almost certainly.

Very shortly came the familiar hesitant tapping. For years the little man had made his presence known in that same faintly timid way. It was irritating.... Doane called out that he would be down soon.

“Oh... all right... thank you!” Thus Boatwright, outside the door. And then he moved slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs.

3

Boatwright was sitting idle at his desk, rolling a pencil about. It was an old roll-top desk from Michigan via Shanghai. Doane closed the door, quietly, and drew up a chair.

“You'd better read this.” Boatwright spread a telegram on the desk. “I haven't told the others. It came late this afternoon.”

The message was from Mrs. Nacy, acting dean of the little college at Hung Chan.

“Several hundred Lookers”—it ran—“broke into compound this noon and took all our food, slightly injuring cook and helper who resisted; they order us to send all girl students home; remain at present carousing near compound; very threatening; commander forbids any communication with you as they seem to fear you and your influence at Judge's yamen, though boasting that Treasurer now rules province and that Judge will be fortunate to escape with his life; wish greatly you could be here.”

Doane, sifting very quietly, shading his eyes with a powerful hand, read the message twice; then asked, calmly:

“Have you notified Pao?”

“Not yet. Your message came several hours earlier. It seemed wise to wait for yuu.”

Doane considered the matter; then reached for red paper, ink pot and brush, and wrote, in Chinese, the equivalent of the following note:

“I beg to report that a band of Lookers at So T'ung, assisted by local young men, killed Jen Ling Pu and about fourteen others, including white engineer named Beggins from compound of Monsieur Pourmont at Ping Yang. Considerable property destroyed. Several buildings burned to ground. Further, to-day, comes a report of attack on the Mission College at Hung Chan, with urgent appeal for help. I am going to Hung Chan at once, to-night, and must beg of Your Excellency immediate support from local officials and troops. I must further beg to advise Your Excellency that I am reporting these unfortunate events to the American Minister at Peking by telegraph to-night and to suggest that only the greatest promptness and firmness on your part can now avert widespread trouble which threatens to bow the head of China once more with shame in the dust.

“James Griggsby Doane.”

He struck a bell then, and to the servant who entered gave instructions regarding the etiquette to be observed in promptly delivering the note at the yamen of the provincial judge.

“I am worried, I'll admit, about Kang,” observed Boatwright, when the servant had gone. He said this without looking up, rolling the pencil back and forth, back and forth. His voice was light and husky.

Deane, watching him, felt now that his own task was to forget self utterly. It was beginning, even, to seem the pleasantly selfish course. The trip down to Hung Chan he welcomed. He would drive himself mercilessly; it would be an escaping from his thoughts. Moments had come, during the walk from So T'ung, when for the first time in his life he understood suicide. So many men fell back on it during the tragic disillusionments of middle life. The trouble with suicide, of course, this sort, was the element of cowardice. He wasn't beaten. Not yet. At least, he had strength left, and physical courage. No, action was the thing. It was the sort of contribution he was best fitted to give these helpless, frightened people here. As to Betty, he would give to the limits of his great strength.

And so he answered Boatwright with a manner of calm confidence.

“Kang is putting up a fight, of course, but Pao will prove too strong for him. At least, there's no good in believing anything else, Elmer. It's the position we've got to take. I'll get into my walking clothes again.”

“You're not going to Hung Chan alone, to-night?”

“Yes. It's the quickest way.”

“Don't you need sleep—a few hours, at least?”

“No, I was too late at So T'ung.”

“That was not your fault.”

“No. Still... I'll go right along.” Doane got up.

“If you could give me a few minutes more there's another matter. I'm afraid you'll regard it as rather important. It's—difficult....” And then, instead of continuing, he fell to rolling the pencil, and gazing at it. His color rose a little.

There was a light knock at the door. Neither man responded. After a moment the door opened a little way, and Mrs. Boatwright looked in.

“Oh!...” she exclaimed, then: “How do you do, Mr. Doane!... Elmer, have you spoken of that matter?”

“I was just beginning to, my dear.”

Mrs. Boatwright, after a silence, came in and closed the door softly behind her.

“Mr. Doane hasn't much time.” Boatwright's voice was low, tremulous. “Matters at So Thing are as bad as they could be. And he is going down to Hung Chan now.”

“To-night?” asked the wife, rather sharply.

Doane inclined his head.

“Then what are we to do?”

“Mr Doane,” put in the husband, “has given instructions that we are to stay here.”

“Oh—instructions?”

“Yes,” said Doane gravely. And he courteously explained: “The situation is developing too rapidly for us to get all the others in to T'ainan. And we can't desert them. Not yet. You will certainly be safer here than you would be on the road. Hung Chan is only eighteen miles. I shall be back within twenty-four hours, probably to-morrow evening. Then we will hold a conference and decide finally on a course. We may be reduced to demanding an escort to Ping Yang, telegraphing the others to save themselves as best they can.”

Mrs. Boatwright soberly considered the problem.

“It looks like nineteen hundred all over again,” Boatwright muttered huskily, without looking up.

“No,” said Doane, “it won't be the same. The only thing we positively know is that history never repeats itself. We'll take it as it comes.” He didn't see Mrs. Boatwright's sharp eyes taking him in as he said this. “I'll leave you now.”

“Just this other matter,” said the wife, more briskly. “I won't keep you long. But I don't feel free to handle the situation in my own way, and—well, something must be done.”

“You see,” said the husband, “there's a man here—a queer American—he turned up—”

“Elmer!” the wife interrupted, “if you will let me.... It is a man your daughter met on the ship coming out, Mr. Doane. Evidently a case of infatuation....”

“He is a journalist—has written works on British administration in India, I believe—”

“Elmer! Please! The fact is, the man has deliberately followed Betty out here. There is some understanding between them—something that should be got at. The man is married. Betty admits that—she seems to be intimately in his confidence. He came rushing out here without so much as a passport. Elmer has had to give up a good deal of time to setting him right at Pao's yamen. I very properly refused to accept him here as a guest, whereupon Hetty got word to him secretly and they have been meeting—”

“Out in the tennis court!”

“Last night I found them there myself. I sent him away, and brought Betty in.”

“Tell it all, dear!”

“I will. Mr. Doane must know the facts. The man was kissing her. He offered no apology. And Betty was defiant. She seemed then to fear the man would not appear again, but in some way she found him this afternoon out in the side street. They must have been there together for some time, walking back and forth, talking earnestly. I had other things to do, of course. I couldn't devote all my time to watching her. And it would seem, if she had any normal sense of... I secured a promise then from Betty that she would not meet him again until after your return. The man, however, would promise nothing.”

On few occasions in her intensely busy life had Mrs. Boatwright been so voluble. But she was excited and perhaps a little prurient; for to such severe self-discipline as hers there are opposite and sometimes equal reactions.

“Something must be done, and at once.” She appeared to be bringing her speech to a conclusion. “The man impressed me as persistent and quite shameless. He is unquestionably exerting a dangerous power over the girl. Even in times like these, I am sure that you, as her father, will feel that a strong effort must be made to save her. I needn't speak of the whispers that are already loose about the compound.”

Through all this, Doane, his face wholly expressionless except for a stunned look about the eyes and perhaps a sad settling about the mouth, looked quietly from wife to husband and back again. They seemed utter strangers, these two. With disconcerting abruptness he discovered that he disliked them both.... Another thought that came was of the scene of desolation he had left at So T'ung. After that, what mattered, what little human thing! Then it occurred to his dazed mind that this wouldn't do. Suddenly he could see Betty—her charm and grace, her bright pretty ways, with his inner eye; and again his spirit was tom and tortured as all during the night, back there in the hills. If only he could recall the prayers that used to rise so easily and earnestly from his eager heart!

“Where is she now?” he asked, outwardly so calm as to stir resentment in the woman before him. She replied, acidly:

“In her room. If she hasn't slipped out again.”

“She promised, I believe you said.”

This was uttered so quietly that a slow moment passed before it reached home. Then Mrs. Boatwright replied, with less emphasis:

“Yes. She promised.”

“And where is the man?”

“At an inn, somewhere inside the walls. Sun would know.”

“What is his name?”

Boatwright fumbled among the papers on his desk, and found a card which he passed over.

Doane looked thoughtfully at it, then slipped it into a pocket; said, quiet, deathly sober, “You may look for me sometime to-morrow night. We will make our final arrangements then. Meantime you had all better get what rest you can.” Then he left the room.

Husband and wife looked at each other. The man's lids drooped first. He began rolling the pencil. Finally he said, listlessly:

“Probably it would be wise to sort out these papers—get the letters and reports straight. If we should go, there wouldn't be much time for packing.”

4

Doane went directly to Betty's door, and knocked. She came at once, in her pretty kimono; peeped out at him; cried softly:

“Oh, Dad! You're safe!”

“Yes, dear. I have one more trip, a short one. It will be all I can do. To-morrow night I'll be back for good. Take care of yourself, little girl.”

“Yes—oh, yes! But I shall worry about you.”

“No. Never worry. I'll be back.”

That seemed to be all he could say. She, too, was still. The silence lengthened, grew into a conscious thing in his mind anti hers. Finally he took a hesitating backward step.

“I must be off, dear.”

“Dad—wait!” She stood erect, her head drawn back, looking directly at him out of curiously bright eyes. Her abundant hair flowed down about her shoulders... But he thought of her eyes. They were frank, brave, and very young and eager and bright. Somewhere within her slim little frame she had a store of fine young courage; he knew it now, and felt a thrill that was at once hope and pain. He had to fight back tears.... She was going to tell him. Yes, she was plunging wonderfully into it:

“There's one thing, Dad! I'm sorry—I oughtn't to make you think of other things now. But if we could only have a little talk....”

He managed to say:

“Only a day more, dear.”

“Yes. I suppose we should wait... though...” He stepped forward, drew her to him, and in an uprush of exquisite tenderness kissed her forehead; then, with an odd little sound that might almost have been a sob, he rushed off, descended the stairs, and went out the front door.

From the window she saw his dim figure crossing the court. At the gate house he paused and called aloud.

Two of the servants came; she could see their quaintly colored paper lanterns bobbing about. One of them went into the gate house and came out again. He was struggling with something. She strained her eyes against the glass. Oh. yes—he was getting into his long coat; that was all. Apparently he went out, this man, with her father.... The other colored lantern bobbed back into the gate house, and the compound settled again into calm.

Doane, though he could not talk with his daughter, could talk directly and bluntly to the man named Brachey, who had rushed out here incontinent after her He knew this; was alive with a slow swelling anger that came to him as a perverse sort of blessing after the cumulative emotional torment of the past three days.