gs,
and shoulders were bare. Her skin was smooth as satin, milky white, and
suffused with the delicate tints of many colors. Her hair was thick and
very black; it was twisted into two tresses that fell forward over each
shoulder nearly to her waist and ended with a little silver ribbon and
tassel tied near the bottom.

Her face was a delicate oval. Her lips were full and of a color for
which in English there is no name. It would have been red doubtless by
sunlight in the world above, but here in this silver light of
phosphorescence, the color red, as we see it, was impossible.

Her nose was small, of Grecian type. Her slate-gray eyes were rather
large, very slightly upturned at the corners, giving just a touch of the
look of our women of the Orient. Her lashes were long and very black. In
conversation she lowered them at times with a charming combination of
feminine humility and a touch of coquetry. Her gaze from under them had
often a peculiar look of melting softness, yet always it was direct and
honest.

Such was the woman who quietly stood beside her hearth, waiting to
welcome these strange guests from another world.

As the men entered through the archway, the boy Loto pushed quickly past
them in his eagerness to get ahead, and, rushing across the room, threw
himself into the woman's arms crying happily, "_Mita, mita._"

The woman kissed him affectionately. Then, before she had time to speak,
the boy pulled her forward, holding her tightly by one hand.

"This is my mother," he said with a pretty little gesture. "Her name is
Lylda."

The woman loosened herself from his grasp with a smile of amusement,
and, native fashion, bowed low with her hands to her forehead.

"My husband's friends are welcome," she said simply. Her voice was soft
and musical. She spoke English perfectly, with an intonation of which
the most cultured woman might be proud, but with a foreign accent much
more noticeable than that of her son.

"A very long time we have been waiting for you," she added; and then, as
an afterthought, she impulsively offered them her hand in their own
manner.

The Chemist kissed his wife quietly. In spite of the presence of
strangers, for a moment she dropped her reserve, her arms went up around
his neck, and she clung to him an instant. Gently putting her down, the
Chemist turned to his friends.

"I think Lylda has supper waiting," he said. Then as he looked at their
torn, woolen suits that once were wh