My eldest daughter Huisun lost her mother as a small child. At eleven she went with her uncle-in-law Lin Licang to study at the Orchid-Leaf Mountain Library.
One evening a maid with hanging hair led in a young woman in purple, who came in through the curtains. Lin asked where she was from. “There is a couplet,” said the young woman, “and I would trouble the licentiate to complete it.” From her sleeve she produced half a sheet of Xue Tao stationery, on which was written: Carrying a basket beyond the rail to gather orchids, stopped by a person in blue.
Before Lin could answer, Huisun replied straight off her tongue: Taking a brush to the wall to inscribe the jade moon, forced to finish by the maiden of the blue sky.
The little maid glanced at her mistress and laughed. “This girl’s turn of phrase is exactly our eldest sister Fei Qiong’s.”
“Quite right! Quite right!” said the young woman. “Our sister Fei Qiong played in the human world for twenty-six years, and was only entered on the registers yesterday. She said she had left a lotus root in the Bathing-Goose Pool, and that after eleven years it would put out stem and leaves and show its wisdom-form in the air. It is this child.”
Huisun was about to speak when the woman took back her paper and hurried out with her maid.
