But he drew her back against the cushions and asked hername， and she told him； and he inquired her age， and she toldhim； and he had then two beautiful words which came easilyto his tongue. He repeated them again and again：
“Lucia... li’l Lucia.... Twelve.... Twelve.” Musical phrasesthey were， dropping from his lips， and to the child who heardher name pronounced so lovingly， they were the lost heightsof melody. She clung to him， and he to her. She held his strongarm in both of hers as they crouched on the divan， and nestledher cheek against his coat.
Well... he took her home to his wretched room.
“Li’l Lucia， come-a-home... Lucia.”
His heart was on fire. As they slipped out of the noisomenessinto the night air and crossed the West India Dock Road intoPennyfields， they passed unnoticed. It was late， for one thing，and for another... well， nobody cared particularly. His bloodrang with soft music and the solemnity of drums， for surelyhe had found now what for many years he had sought—hisworld’s one flower. Wanderer he was， from Tuan-tsen toShanghai， Shanghai to Glasgow... Cardiff... Liverpool...
London. He had dreamed often of the women of his nativeland； perchance one of them should be his flower. Women，indeed， there had been. Swatow... he had recollections ofcertain rose-winged hours in coast cities. At many places towhich chance had led him a little bird had perched itself uponhis heart but so lightly and for so brief a while as hardly to befelt. But now—now he had found her in this alabaster Cockneychild. So that he was glad and had great joy of himself andthe blue and silver night， and the harsh flares of the PoplarHippodrome.
You will observe that he had claimed her， but had not askedhimself whether she were of an age for love. The white perfectionof the child had captivated every sense. It may be that heforgot that he was in London and not in Tuan-tsen. It may bethat he did not care. Of that nothing can be told. All that isknown is that his love was a pure and holy thing. Of that wemay be sure， for his worst enemies have said it.
Slowly， softly they mounted the stairs to his room， and withalmost an obeisance he entered and drew her in. A bank ofcloud raced to the east and a full moon thrust a sharp sword oflight upon them. Silence lay over all Pennyfields. With a birdlikemovement， she looked up at him—her face alight， her tinyhands upon his coat—clinging， wondering， trusting. He tookher hand and kissed it； repeated the kiss upon her cheek and lipand little bosom， twirling his fingers in her hair. Docilely andechoing the smile of his lemon lips in a way that thrilled himalmost to laughter， she returned his kisses impetuously， gladly.
He clasped the nestling to him. Bruised， tearful， with thelove of life almost thrashed out of her， she had fluttered to himout of the evil night.
“O li’l Lucia！” And he put soft hands upon her， andsmoothed her and crooned over her many gracious things inhis flowered speech. So they stood in the moonlight， while shetold him the story of her father， of her beatings， and starvings，and unhappiness.
“O li’l Lucia... White Blossom... Twelve... Twelve yearsold！”
As he spoke， the clock above the Milwall Docks shot twelvecrashing notes across the night. When the last echo died， hemoved to a cupboard， and from it he drew strange things...
formless masses of blue and gold， magical things of silk， and avessel that was surely Aladdin’s lamp， and a box of spices. Hetook these robes， and， with tender， reverent fingers， removedfrom his White Blossom the besmirched rags that covered her，and robed her again， and led her then to the heap of stuff thatwas his bed， and bestowed her safely.
For himself， he squatted on the floor before her， holdingone grubby little hand. There he crouched all night， under thelyric moon， sleepless， watchful； and sweet content was his.
He had fallen into an uncomfortable posture， and his musclesached intolerably. But she slept， and he dared not move norrelease her hand lest he should awaken her. Weary and trustful，she slept， knowing that the yellow man was kind and that shemight sleep with no fear of a steel hand smashing the delicatestructure of her dreams.
In the morning， when she awoke， still wearing her blueand yellow silk， she gave a cry of amazement. Cheng hadbeen about. Many times had he glided up and down the twoflights of stairs， and now at last his room was prepared for hisprincess. It was swept and garnished， and was an apartmentworthy a maid who is loved by a poet-prince. There was a beadcurtain. There were muslins of pink and white. There werefour bowls of flowers， clean， clear flowers to gladden the whiteBlossom and set off her sharp beauty. And there was a bowl ofwater， and a sweet lotion for the bruise on her cheek.
When she had risen， her prince ministered to her with riceand egg and tea. Cleansed and robed and calm， she sat beforehim， perched on the edge of many cushions as on a throne，with all the grace of the child princess in the story. She wasa poem. The beauty hidden by neglect and fatigue shone outnow more clearly and vividly， and from the head sunning overwith curls to the small white feet， now bathed and sandaled，she seemed the living interpretation of a Chinese lyric. Andshe was his； her sweet self， and her prattle， and her birdlikeways were all his own.
Oh， beautifully they loved. For two days he held her. Softcaresses from his yellow hands and long， devout kisses wereall their demonstration. Each night he would tend her， as mightmother to child； and each night he watched and sometimesslumbered at the foot of her couch.
But now there were those that ran to Battling at his trainingquarters across the river， with the news that his child hadgone with a Chink—a yellow man. And Battling was angry.
He discovered parental rights. He discovered indignation. Ayellow man after his kid！ He’d learn him. Battling did not likemen who were not born in the same great country as himself.