CHAPTER XIV.

CHINESE MASKS.

A MAN who, like Mylius, has become accustomed to take the world by geographical strides, thinks little of taking a journey of a few hundred miles several times a month, and the good host of the Tarratine Hotel had become accustomed to this genial transient guest, whose bill was large and generous, though his sojourn brief and intermittent. It had required much consultation with the loungers about "the office" before mine host could unriddle the somewhat singular entry in his book, for "Robert Mylius, Shanghai, China," was full of mystery to the good man.

"Robert-now that is a good Christian name; but Mylius-Mỹ li us, Shanghai, China.

Now,

he don't look Chinee; but he has a name like the

worst heathen o' the lot.
I made him out at all.
and he hain't no interest

'Twas quite a while 'fore He warn't a drummer, in ice nor mills. But

now it's come out he's after that Miss Bender down to Allen's. Now I told my wife she warn't here to stay. No sech good-looking gurls as that 'thout beaus, but never tho't she'd hev one all the way from Chiny. He don't look Chinese, but that name o' his sticks me, and so I up 'n asked Mr. Allen himself, 'n he said 'twas Mēluus - that's how they call it. Spell it with a y too! Well, that beats all."

Not all of the interest in Mylius was confined to the Tarratine Hotel, for with his advent and introduction into the Allen family he had become the center of curiosity and speculation; to none so much as the children themselves, and Queenie stood aside with superiority and hurled her missiles of scorn into the midst of her young subjects.

"Didn't I tell you so, Di, and Mopsa believed there wasn't anything in that Hong Kong letter? Here is Mr. Mylius, straight from Hong Kong

too.

"But I think he is very nice," said Mopsa, a little tearful at having her judgment criticised.

"Of course you do, Mopsa. Just to think of giving you all these lovely masks to play with; only you will be a regular heathen if he stays

here much longer, Mopsa. The idea of telling you such things! What is this?"

There were six small masks, as the children called them, ranged upon a toy-table, and the six small and tall girls were standing around the table regarding their Mongolian countenances with admiration and envy.

"This," said Mopsa, with the pride of possession, “is the face of Mog, the god of joy and festivity. Whenever I am sulky, I am to take him out and look at him. What beautiful eyes he has! Those are real cat's-eyes, Hattie; Mr. Mylius. told me so. This is Toag, the god of games. I shall take him out whenever I play games, and then I'll have good luck. See his eyes!"

"Why, Mopsa, you will be a real idolater! It's wicked to worship idols," said Di, dismayed.

"I should never, never be such a thing, Hester Bradley Allen. It is very wicked for you to say such things. Of course it is only play. Now this is Jog. When I can't think of my lessons, I am to take him out. See how stern he looks. There is a story about them all, and Mr. Mylius will tell them to us by and by."

Suddenly the whole group swept down upon

the small table, and each child bore away in her hand a Chinese mask, and at a signal from the tall, mischievous Helen (called Queenie, because of her talent for leadership), they gave a war-whoop and broke into a wonderful dance, shouting the mystic names "Mog, Toag, Jog, Nag, Mean, Bel." Jumping and shouting, bowing and bending, each with a grinning mask in her hand, they executed a dance which might well have been learned on the Yang-tseKiang or Ganges, instead of improvised in a quiet New England nursery. Suddenly into their midst walked Mylius himself, upon whom they all rushed with shouts of

"O Sinbad! tell us the story of all these masks. Where did you get them? How much did they cost? Are they real gods?"

So many questions, that Mylius seated himself Asiatically on the floor, and the children formed a circle about him, as he proceeded, like an ancient mariner, to reel his yarn.

"But first," he said, "give me my precious masks, that I may gain inspiration from their lovely countenances."

As each small fist relinquished its treasure, Mylius placed them on the small table before him, patting each affectionately, much to the amusement

of the children. "Mog, my friend of the merry countenance, thy cat's-eyes are from the steppes of Thibet, thy ebony chops from the plains of Gobi, thy golden teeth from the vale of Ophir. I beg your pardon, my children, I am ever a bit facetious and irrelevant when I gaze at Mog. But before I tell you how he came to be mine, I must tell you how it entered my head to make this little collection of spirits of my moods.

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Long ago there lived in France a very crafty and cruel but very clever king, called Louis XI (Eleventh). Now Louis had a very grotesque hat, ornamented around the crown with small leaden images of his favorite saints, and whenever he was in doubt or danger, about to engage in any hazardous enterprise of warfare, diplomacy, or even boarhunting a favorite pursuit of his-he would off with his hat, and, placing it before him on the ground, address his prayers to one or all of the images.

Well, that story always amused me, and when I discovered these little masks they suggested a similar collection.

"Well, I won't prose it any more, but plunge ahead into the Celestial Kingdom of pigtails and pagodas. It was Shanghai. I was walking along