It was now the eighth month (September 1867), the “chrysanthemum month,” and a row of painted porcelain pots in Nieh Shen-seng's little garden saw their art glories fade beneath the loveliness of flowers which no Chinese artist could paint, blossoms painted by the Great Artist.

Seng-teh had now solved a little problem with the aid of his Camilla. Chiefly sympathy that help was, but in return for it he had called her the “Fire Maiden.” He had erected a temple to her—in his heart. The worship therein was not idolatrous; it was but the old English word worship, still surviving in the marriage service. He had made a small kiln in his backyard. He could now paint and fire his own wares. These would be more attractive to the general public than the rather too æsthetic thin black lines of the laborious engraving process; half the price too, cheaper to him than the painted cups and vases of other men, and perhaps more conscientiously painted. He would have to move into a better-known street, and his juvenile must be his apprentice, while another juvenile might become shop-boy.

It was the day before the autumn solstice, and Nieh Shen-seng was arrayed in his long plum-black silk robe, the robe he had been married in, which had accompanied him in one of his boxes in his travels.