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I have given to this stranger-child, this child left to die upon the
tow-path, the clothes that were our son's. She was cold, and thy
Mother came to me so gently and said, "Kwei-li, hast thou no clothing
for the child that was found by thy servants?" I saw her meaning, and I
said, "Would'st thou have me put the clothing over which I have wept,
and that is now carefully laid away in the camphor-wood box, upon
this child?" She said-- and thou would'st not know thy Mother's voice,
her bitter words are only as the rough shell of the lichee nut that
covers the sweet meat hidden within-- she said, "Why not, dear one?
This one needs them, and the hours thou passest with them are only
filled with saddened memories." I said to her, "This is a girl, a beggar
child. I will not give to her the clothing of my son. Each time I looked
upon her it would be a knife plunged in my heart." She said to me,
"Kwei-li, thou art not a child, thou art a woman. Of what worth that
clothing lying in that box of camphor-wood? Does it bring back thy
son? Some day thou wilt open it, and there will be nothing but dust
which will reproach thee. Get them and give them to this child which
has come to us out of the night.
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