When Ikamon had gone Tetsutaisho retired, and as he did so he went with the satisfaction of having discovered, as he thought, the secret of his failure. He had always regarded Kinsan as a prize not to be overlooked, but had not offered to divine her real charm. His repeated defeat had not been attributed to that; it was upon baser grounds he had excused himself and accused her. Her constancy, however, had awakened in him a better sense of her nature, and he now began to feel the force of her virtue; but having again mistaken her, and wrongfully attributed her refusal to the success of a rival, he became mad and vowed vengeance as well as victory.

“I will hunt him down!” said he to himself, as he entered his den, and there stayed and fretted, in spite of Takara’s repeated urgent calls. “It is not Kinsan, but her lover that is the real cause of my discomfiture. Law makes right, and Tetsutaisho shall vindicate the law.”

He retired late, but felt himself rewarded by the day’s ending. At first he had really intended to give Kinsan only the care of the child, but now it occurred to him to make it her own. The power was in his hands; why not use it? She seemed glad of the care, and it would give her an occupation, an excuse for being in his house: her lover would divine another reason.

Takara ought not to suffer much from the loss, and should profit by the subterfuge. Her birth, her position, her ambition, all demanded a better protection, a surer disposition. Why not benefit her? There was not a soul in the house who might be any the wiser, unless it were Michizane, the poet, and banishment must silence him. That were a simple matter and Ikamon would attend to it at once. His own devotion to Takara for a short time should quell any misgivings and allay all feelings on her part, while a little deception would start everything smoothly on its proper course.

“I am the man!” thought he, and he slumbered long and in peace.

The next morning he hurried to Takara, and when he had left her she was thankful for his having come, and less doubtful about his sincerity. Whether real or not, she realised that the wiser course is to turn a bad bargain to good use, and resigned herself to the hope, if not belief, that his plans were for the best and that he would keep his promises.

Before leaving the house for the day Tetsutaisho ran in to see the child and incidentally make some assurances to Kinsan. She, glad of the opportunity, resigned herself to her task without questioning too closely the purpose or thinking much about the outcome. Here at least was a respite, and anything promising to stay the hand of fate was to her indeed welcome. Therefore, when Nehachibana came in later in the day and found Kinsan cooing over a little red baby, all flounced with silk, a-kicking and a-crying, her face coloured and she began to question its kindly mistress with something of curiosity, if not suspicion.

“Oh, what a pretty baby!” said she, as she crossed the room and squatted on the floor in front. “And where did you get it? It is so cunning. Is it yours? I wish I had a baby like that—so big and bright. But then it wouldn’t have eyes like those, I know. Would it? Let me see your eyes, Kinsan—I never could tell a baby’s mother.”

“I shall not let you have this one, though you don’t see its mother in its eyes. It’s a good baby, and its name is Sodachinojoi, and no more.”

“Oh, what a name! and how? My husband said you are a gardener’s daughter.”

“And even so, the breeding may be none the less. I hope you will like the baby, and I will do all I can to make him worthy of his name and a joy to us all.”

“Why do you not say, ‘My baby’? I should, if I had one.”

“Then why don’t you?” said Kinsan, with much surprise; she still believing that only Nehachibana could be the mother of her husband’s child, as her own mother had been of all her father’s children.

“Take your charge, you impudent thing! I shall never set foot upon your mat again. No, never!” shrieked Nehachibana, as she pushed the child toward Kinsan and flew from the room.

Kinsan was not greatly disturbed by Nehachibana’s demeanour, though the thrust was painful and entirely uncalled for so far as she could see or know. However, she was by this time accustomed to jeers, if not insults, and did not take the words much to heart, and only thought of how agreeable it would be should the other make good her threat and stay away; at least until such time as her understanding prompted a kinder treatment.