The Snapped Willow
pleted at last No finer rug had ever been seen in China. The sheen of the silk, the poignance of the colors made it seem as though the great rug was a thing alive, as though it could feel and breathe. And perhaps it could for it contained all the rare love which had once lain hidden in the beautiful body of Shun Hua.
Melancholia was often the lot of Lao Tzu after his return from Cambodia. Perhaps it was the strange attraction of the ancient temples that drew his thoughts away from mundane things. Or perhaps it was the fact that Shun Hua had developed an odd fretfulness. She continually complained about their mode of living. She was never contented except when they were in the room wherein hung the silken rug. It seemed to weave a charming spell over her even as she had woven charm into it. For at those times she was once more the girl he had loved during the first sweet weeks of their marriage. And Lao Tzu would be satisfied. His confidence would be restored. Her fretfulness was but a figment of his imagination. But when they left the room of the silken rug it was as though she slipped out of her wondrous character as one might slip from an old coat. And once more dire forebodings would grip Lao Tzu, plunging him into abject misery.
Then again came Ping Yung, the musician with his stories of witchery. He sang of the glory of Cambodia and more. He sang of the bright lanterns which were the eyes of Shun Hua. She listened to his every word
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