III.-KO-AI AND THE BELL.

MU

UCH as I dislike, the bigoted anti-foreign Manchoo-Tartar rulers of China, I have always liked and respected the polite and peace-loving hereditary Chinese, and especially admired their ladies- little imagining, however, in my wildest dreams, that one of them would eventually be the means of heroically saving my life, and would become my faithful wife.

Whenever I hear the solemn-sounding bell of the rustic church near my home, "mournfully dealing its dole" in the morning and evening, it reminds me of far-away China and of my dear old friend Chu Lee. A rare good fellow was Chu Lee, but, although a fairly sincere Christian, he could never forsake the inherent superstition of his race; and the most outrageously improbable stories he would tell with almost childish credulity.

We were walking together one evening in Shanghai, near the ancient walls of the Chinese city, and the bell of some convent had begun to ring, when he suddenly grasped me by the arm and, bringing me to a standstill, exclaimed "Listen! listen!-That sounds like poor Ko-ai's voice, calling for her shoe, poor girl!”

I looked about to try and discover the whereabouts of this damsel: but since I could neither hear nor see her, and as my friend's gaze seemed fixed on space, I concluded that he was labouring under some delusion or was temporarily bereft of reason. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Who is this Ko-ai, this Celestial Cinderella of yours?"

He did not answer my question at once, but remained in an attitude of contemplative attention, repeating, the word hsich (shoe)

at each stroke of the bell. When the tolling ceased, we moved on, and he suddenly awoke from this seeming trance.

"I suppose you have never heard, then, of poor Ko-ai, nor of the wonderful tragedy connected with the bell in the old Bell Tower at Pekin. I will tell you about it-it is a sad story-and the sounds we heard to-night reminded me of it-they were so similar to poor Ko-ai's voice, that I almost imagined it was her, and that I was back in Pekin again," he said, as we strolled on through the city, and he related the following legend:

Many hundreds of years ago, in the Ming dynasty, the Emperor Tung-lo, being desirous of leaving to posterity a substantial memento of his reign, built the famous Pekin Bell-Tower that yet stands intact-a mournful monument of tyranny.

Numerous high officials were entrusted with the work of building the tower and, when it was complete, he summoned his courtiers and expressed his satisfaction. The important work was now to make a bell, and for this purpose he called one of his most skilled metallists and entrusted the casting to him. The name of this favoured person was Kuan-Yu, a mandarin of some distinction in the capital, and one well liked by all who knew him. On receiving the order from the Emperor, he hastened home to impart the news to his beloved daughter Ko-ai, who was a beautiful girl of sixteen. It was a proud day for the good old man, and he invited his many friends to celebrate the occasion of his trust, and all heartily wished him success.

Next day he commenced operations with a will; and the scene of his labours was visited by crowds of folk, each one having his say and giving an opinion, and all evincing much interest in the making of the bell.

At last, after two months had passed happily and busily away, a proclamation was posted up about the city, notifying the public that, on the morrow, the casting of the great bell would take place in presence of the Emperor. Kuan-yu was happy in the sanguine belief of success, and in the contemplation of well-earned renown; and Ko-ai ardently shared in his hopefulness. Early in the day people began to gather near the new tower, and at the appointed time the gay-apparelled heralds announced through their

trumpets the coming of the Emperor, who in good time arrived with his retinue to grace the auspicious occasion.

Kuan-yu now stepped forward and, bowing low to the Emperor, gave a signal to his workmen, and the molten metal rushed into the cast. An ominous silence fell upon the hitherto noisy assemblage, and all craned forward anxiously to ascertain the result. It was to be indelibly written on the flushed and changing countenance of the disappointed man-the casting was "honeycombed." With a warning frown and a stern caution, the Emperor and his retinue hastily left; and the crest-fallen mandarin returned home, soon, however, to find consolation in the fond and hopeful words of his loving daughter, who gave him fresh courage and determination to surmount the difficulty.

Two more months passed uneventfully away. Again the citizens gathered together in hundreds to witness the second casting. This attempt also failed; and as the impatient and enraged monarch rose for the second time to depart, he wrathfully declared aloud that, should the third casting likewise prove unsuccessful, he would surely decapitate the unfortunate Kuan-yu, who once more returned half broken-hearted to his quiet home. Again he found respite from the sorrow and disgrace that assailed him in the loving enthusiasm and hope of his fair child, who never failed to inspire him with fresh zeal and with determination to overcome the difficulty.

Poor Ko-ai, being a brave and devoted daughter, did not wish to further disturb her old father with any misgivings which she suffered on his account and which only strengthened her noble resolve.

To make the days of age pass cheerfully,
And close beneath the shadow of her love.

After much tearful deliberation and prayer, she determined, if possible, to divine the cause and prevent a recurrence of these most grievous failures. For this purpose, one day when her father was absent, she ordered her palanquin and set out to seek the advice of a celebrated astrologer. After traversing many narrow streets and lanes, she found herself before a small creeper-covered

hut situated on the outskirts of the city. On timidly entering, she beheld an old man, bent double with age, seated before a scanty fire that was kindled in the centre of the poorly furnished apartment.

At first he did not take heed of her. But at length he motioned her to a seat and, in a weak voice, inquired her pleasure. She at once related her father's misfortune, and, falling on her knees, implored the old man's advice and aid in this all-important matter.

For some minutes the astrologer maintained unbroken silence, during which time he appeared to be in a trance. As he awoke, his very bones seemed to creak as a tremor passed through his withered frame and he raised and straightened himself.

"My poor child," he then said, standing up beside her and placing a withered hand upon her shoulder, "it is, indeed, a terrible ordeal of self-sacrifice which his rescuer would bear. I will not hide the truth from you; but briefly I will make known the just but rigorous decrees of fate-inexorable fate! For I am a man of but few words. Your worthy father might go on trying to cast a bell for that tower until death relieved him of his task and stayed his hand, and the deft hands of generations of successors. But he and they would never succeed. For it is decreed by fate that, until the life-blood of a young and innocent maid is mixed with the molten metal, the casting will never be perfect. It is a noble cause. I can say no more, more, my child-may the gods be

with you!"

Ko-ai returned home, sad and horrified, yet nobly determined to sacrifice her young life in order to save her beloved father and his honourable name.

Those last days were very dear to her, and she devoted them entirely to her father and the bell. The latter she now looked upon as part of her own life, since it was her own life that was required to make it perfect in every part. She felt glad however that it was in her power to do so good a deed, and to so fittingly show her devotion and her gratitude for long years of paternal care.

In due course the time for the third casting arrived. It was a bright and stilly day-a day long to be remembered by the people of that city. Early in the morning they began to gather in from

all parts of the surrounding country; and all eagerly discussed the chances of failure or success. For well they knew that failure meant the alternative of death to the well-liked metallist.

Poor Ko-ai was up early that morning, and, bringing out her little jewels and trinkets, dressed herself in her pretty silkembroidered gown, and attended early prayer in the temple near her home. There she burned her small joss-sticks, and prayed simply and earnestly-for it was her last morning on earth. She had obtained her father's sanction to be present at the casting.

Once more the loud-braying trumpets herald the arrival of the Emperor and suite. Once more the anxious people crowd around to witness the event. Nearer and nearer to the fatal cast the devoted Ko-ai has her carriage moved.

Now her father steps forward.

His hand is raised.

A shriek rends the great stillness-the liquid metal hisses-the multitude waver-and there is a great murmur. Headlong into the seething metal, poor Ko-ai has disappeared.

One of her attendants rushes forward to try and save her from plunging to her doom, but only saves a little silken shoe, which comes off in her hand.

No more was seen of Ko-ai. But when the great bell was uncovered, it was perfect in every respect. But the broken-hearted father never lived to hear its sonorous sound, like the cry of a human voice-a voice-repeating the word hsich (shoe.) In the sounding of that bell is to be heard-even to this day-poor Ko-ai calling for her shoe!