renounced all else in the world for love of her.
For a while longer the singing continued, then it ceased. It ended on a final beautiful note that was almost a moan.
With a start, Steppling came back to reality. The room was now in total darkness. The moon-lantern had been ruthlessly torn from its hanging. Now the fury of the wind increased, if increase it could. Occasionally Hi Ling uttered a cry of excitement, of anger or delight. And the wind roared back in a tremendous voice which Steppling construed as a threat. How long the fight continued Steppling could not tell. He crouched in his corner, as nervous as a newborn kitten that is snatched from its mother.
Dawn came at last. As it did so
the Wind passed out of the window,
to return no more. As the first
shafts of the sun cut over the jagged
mountain peaks and crept into the
room, John Steppling gazed cautiously
about him. Hi Ling lay prone on
the floor before the altar. Steppling
rushed to his side. He turned the
limp body over, but it was useless.
The chest had been completely
crushed. Hi Ling had collapsed, even
as an old frail house might collapse
in a cyclone,
For a moment Steppling gazed down upon the face, but it was no longer old and lined with age. It was the face of a youth. There was a bit of warm red color in the cheeks, and the mouth was smiling. Steppling gazed slowly toward the jade vase. The withered branch was withered no longer. Life had come to it again, for on the branch was a flower of the soft warm color of a tea rose, but unlike any flower he had ever known before. The fragrant, cool petals were as velvet-soft as the cheek of any maiden.
Again John Steppling turned to Hi Ling, and he was not surprized that even in death he looked young. For youth had come to him in the return of 'Dawn-Girl', Old age at best is mainly a matter of attitude.
An hour later John Steppling left the long, ambling old house. But before he went, he again lighted the moon-lantern and placed the lovely flower on the breast of Hi Ling. Even as he left he heard the sound of singing, and the notes were joyous and wonderfully sweet.
In Weird Tales For May
Author of "The Rats in the Walls"
A devil-tale of unutterable horror
On sale at all news stands April first
