“Do they send servants to English teachers in China?”

“When they are to grow up and deal with English business, mistress.”

“Did you meet English people at the hong?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Who were they?”

“I cannot name them.  There were my lords and the admiral; and the American Consul he came, and the German Consul he came, and the American travelers they came, and Russian officers they came.”

“How old are you, Sky-High?”

“There have passed over me fifteen New-Year days, mistress.”

“Well, Sky-High,” said his mistress, “I am going to give you this cabin under the trees, where you may do your washings and all your ironings.  No one else shall come here to work.  I have decided to have you begin to-morrow to bring up the breakfast.”

The next morning Sky-High performed his first service at the breakfast-table.  He brought up the coffee while Mr. Van Buren was saying grace.  He paused before the table.

“Sleepy, sleepy!” he exclaimed softly, “all sleepy!”

Mrs. Van Buren put out her hand as a signal for him to wait.  Sky-High did not understand, and the grace was concluded amid smiles.

Sky-High wondered much what had made the family sleepy at that time of the day.  They did not go to sleep at the breakfast-table in China.

“The mistress and her people,” said he to Nora, “shut their eyes and go to sleep at the breakfast.”

“An’ sure, it is quare you are yourself!  They were praying.  Don’t you ever say prayers, Sky-High?”

“My country has printed prayers,” said Sky-High with lofty dignity.

“You’re a hathen people.  Here we call such as you a ‘hathen Chinee,’ and there was a Californan poet that wrote a whole piece about the likes of you.  Children speak it at school.  Here is the toast—­carry it up!”

Lucy liked to see the little olive-colored “wang” moving about.  One day at the table she requested him to bring her a cup of tea.  The little Chinaman well knew that Lucy and Charles were not permitted to have tea.  He inquired whether he should make it in the American or the Chinese way.

“In the way you would for a wang,” said Lucy.

Sky-High soon re-appeared, his tray bearing a pretty little covered cup and a silver pitcher.

“Where is the tea?” asked Lucy.

“It is in the cup, like a wang’s,” said Sky-High.

He poured the hot water on the tea, and fragrance filled the room.

Lucy, with a glance asking her mother’s leave, tasted the tea she had roguishly ordered.

“We do not have tea like this,” she said; “is it tea?”

“Like a wang’s,” said Sky-High, blinking.

“Where did you get it?” asked Lucy.

“Out of my tea-canister,” said Sky-High.

Little Lucy did not drink the tea, for little Lucy had never drunk a cup of tea; but its fragrance lingered about the house through the day, and set her wondering what else the little Chinaman’s immense trunk might hold.