“Hoqua?” Mr. Van Buren looked at the boy with interest, “You know of Hoqua?”

“Who is Hoqua?” asked Mrs. Van Buren.

Mr. Van Buren turned to her, “I will tell you later.”

“Hoqua, madam,” said Sky-High, bowing to his mistress, “was the great merchant mandarin of Canton in the time of the opening of that port to all countries.”

How did a Chinese servant know anything of Hoqua?  This was the question that puzzled Mr. Van Buren.  “Sky-High, how many people have you in your country?” he asked.

“It is said four hundred million.”

“We have only seventy millions here, Sky-High.”

“I have been told,” said Sky-High.

“And who is ruler over all your people?” asked Mr. Van Buren.

“The Celestial Emperor, the Son of Heaven, the Brother of the Sun and
Moon, the Dweller in Rooms of Gold, the Light of Life, the Father of the
Nations.”

“You fill me with wonder, Sky-High.  We have a plain President.  Do your people die to make room for more millions?”

“My people value not to die, O Mandarin!” said the boy.

“Such throngs of people—­they all have souls, think you?”

A dark flush came upon little Sky-High’s forehead.  He opened his narrow black eyes upon his master.  “Souls?  They have souls, O Mandarin!  Souls are all my people have for long.”

“Where go their souls when your people die?”

“To their ancestors!  With them they live among the lotus blooms.”

“We will excuse you now,” said Mr. Van
Buren to Sky-High.  “You have answered
intelligently, according to your knowledge.”

The kitchen-boy bowed himself out without turning his back towards any one, describing many glittering angles, and waving his fan.  He looked like something vanishing, a bit of fireworks going out.

As he reached the stair, the little white cat sprang from Lucy’s arms, and skipped swiftly after the curious inmate of the kitchen.  The long, swinging braid was a temptation.  The last glimpse Charles and Lucy had was of an embroidered sleeve as Sky-High reached backward and caught the kitten to his shoulder, and bound her fast with his queue.

Charlie clapped his hands.  He thought there would be fun in the house.  He knew he should like Sky-High.  As they went up-stairs he said to Lucy, “The little Chinaman was a heathen, and father was a missionary.”

Mr. Van Buren heard him, and called him back.  “The little Chinaman was a new book,” said he, “and your father was reading.  See that you treat the boy well.”

III.

Lucy’s cup of tea.

Mr. Van Buren’s home was on Milton Hill.  It overlooked Boston and the harbor.  The upper windows commanded a glorious view in the morning.  Before it glittered the sea with its white sails, and behind it rose the Blue Hills with their green orchards and woods.  The house was colonial, with gables and cupola, and was surrounded by hour-glass elms, arbors, and evergreen trees.  It had been built by Mr. Van Buren’s father in the days of the China trade and of the primitive mandarin merchant, Hoqua.