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And Wang Lung could have wept for what she said because not one had ever requited him like this, and his heart clung to her and he said,

"Nevertheless, take it, my child, for there is none I trust as I do you, but even you must die one day---although I cannot say the words---and after you there is none---no, not one---and well I know my sons' wives are too busy with their children and their quarrels and my sons are men and cannot think of such things."

So when she saw his meaning, Pear Blossom took the packet from him and said no more and Wang Lung trusted her and was comforted for the fate of his poor fool.

Then Wang Lung withdrew more and more into his age and he lived much alone except for these two in his courts, his poor fool and Pear Blossom. Sometimes he roused himself a little and he looked at Pear Blossom and he was troubled and said,

"It is too quiet a life for you, my child."

But she always answered gently and in great gratitude,

"It is quiet and safe."

And sometimes he said again,

"I am too old for you, and my fires are ashes."

But she always answered with a great thankfulness,

"You are kind to me and more I do not desire of any man."

Once when she said this Wang Lung was curious and he asked her,

"What was it in your tender years that made you thus fearful of men?"

And looking at her for answer he saw a great terror in her eyes and she covered them with her hands and she whispered,

"Every man I hate except you---I have hated every man, even my father who sold me. I have heard only evil of them and I hate them all."

And he said wondering,

"Now I should have said you had lived quietly and easily in my courts."

"I am filled with loathing,*" she said, looking away, "I am filled with loathing and I hate them all. I hate all young men."

And she would say nothing more, and he mused on it, and he did not know whether Lotus had filled her with tales of her life and had threatened her, or whether Cuckoo had frightened her with lewdness, or whether something had befallen her secretly that she would not tell him, or what it was.

But he sighed and gave over his questions, because above everything now he would have peace, and he wished only to sit in his court near these two.

SO WANG LUNG sat, and so his age came on him day by day and year by year, and he slept fitfully in the sun as his father had done, and he said to himself that his life was done and he was satisfied with it.

Sometimes, but seldom, he went into the other courts and sometimes, but more seldom, he saw Lotus, and she never mentioned the maid he had taken, but she greeted him well enough and she was old too and satisfied with the food and the wine she loved and with the silver she had for the asking. She and Cuckoo sat together now after these many years as friends and no longer as mistress and servant, and they talked of this and that, and most of all the old days with men and they whispered together of things they would not speak aloud, and they ate and drank and slept, and woke to gossip again before eating and drinking.

And when Wang Lung went, and it was very seldom, into his sons' courts, they treated him courteously and they ran to get tea for him and he asked to see the last child and he asked many times, for he forgot easily,

"How many grandchildren have I now?"

And one answered him readily,

"Eleven sons and eight daughters have your sons together."

And he, chuckling and laughing, said back,

"Add two each year, and I know the number, is it so?"

Then he would sit a little while and look at the children gathering around him to stare. His grandsons were tall lads now, and he looked at them, peering at them to see what they were, and he muttered to himself,

"Now that one has the look of his great-grandfather and there is a small merchant Liu, and here is myself when young."

And he asked them,

"Do you go to school?"

"Yes, grandfather," they answered in a scattered chorus, and he said again,

"Do you study the Four Books?"