would for the first time cross Kwan-yu's threshold--would come to see
the casting of the bell he had ordered for his people. On hearing this,
Kwan-yu was sore afraid, for he felt that somehow, in spite of all his
reading, in spite of all the advice he had received from well-wishers,
there was something lacking in the mixture of the boiling metals that
would soon be poured into the giant mould. In short, Kwan-yu was about
to discover an important truth that this great world has been thousands
of years in learning--namely, that mere reading and advice cannot
produce skill, that true skill can come only from years of experience
and practice. On the brink of despair, he sent a servant with money to
the temple, to pray to the gods for success in his venture. Truly,
despair and prayer rhyme in every language.

Ko-ai, his daughter, was also afraid when she saw the cloud on her
father's brow, for she it was, you remember, who had tried to prevent
him from undertaking the Emperor's commission. She also went to the
temple, in company with a faithful old servant, and prayed to heaven.

The great day dawned. The Emperor and his courtiers were assembled, the
former sitting on a platform built for the occasion. Three attendants
waved beautiful hand-painted fans about his imperial brow, for the room
was very warm, and a huge block of ice lay melting in a bowl of carved
brass, cooling the hot air before it should blow upon the head of the
Son of Heaven.

Kwan-yu's wife and daughter stood in a corner at the back of the room,
peering anxiously towards the cauldron of molten liquid, for well they
knew that Kwan-yu's future rank and power depended on the success of
this enterprise. Around the walls stood Kwan-yu's friends, and at the
windows groups of excited servants strained their necks, trying to catch