Maido had not long to wait, though the time seemed never to pass. It was the first word received from his son, for Shibusawa knew the danger of even attempting to communicate with either his parent or Kinsan. During all these years he knew not what effect his departure had wrought at home, nor of the fortunes of those whom he had left behind. Still he had always hoped for the best, and when he had definitely made up his mind to return he so managed to forward the letter of advice as to bring it safely to Maido’s hand; arriving, as it happened, only a few days after Takara had been seized and carried away by the ronin, and none too early, for Shibusawa himself came soon thereafter.

To avoid possible compromise Shibusawa had couched the letter in such terms that no one but a father could be the wiser for its contents; therefore no dates were fixed, and the anxious daimyo had only to wait, and for hours sat watching the gate in front. These were suspicious times at Tokyo, hence no preparations could be made for the home-coming, nor information given out, save Maido’s instructions to the faithful Okyo. Thereafter no arrival escaped that one’s vigilant eye, and when the expected ship had safely arrived at Yokohama he was there on hand with an extra pilgrim’s outfit on his back.

Late the next evening they two reached home, and Shibusawa, footsore and weary, hurried up the pathway and into the house, where he bowed low at his father’s feet. Neither attempted to speak. When Shibusawa had changed his clothing they sat in the cool of the evening, for it was now late in June, enjoying the breeze that floated in from the bay in the distance. The family brazier was again brought out, and they sat and smoked and talked the hours away.

“And now, father,” said the son, after they had talked much about the family and things at home, “you must lie down and sleep, and to-morrow I shall tell you all about myself. I know you are anxious to hear, but you must rest now, and then the story will be the more pleasing. You need have no fear but you shall hear it all—I am returned, and I promise I shall not soon again leave you. Goodnight, and peace for you.”

They had no sooner parted and the father gone to sleep than Shibusawa hastened to change his dress and once again find his way to the hidden cave. The time seemed long to him since he had last been there, and now that he was about to go again he felt that he never would get started. Just why he wanted to hurry there he did not know; possibly he had not consulted reason; yet it was his only hope, and that was enough to impel him to go.

As he approached the familiar gate where he had so often passed he observed that new locks hung from the latches; that the old guard had gone; that a haughty, “Who goes there?” greeted his ears, and suddenly it appeared to him that a great change had taken place. He realised for the first time that he was no longer in the land which he had left only a few years before; that here, too, the seed of progress had been sown, and that already new sprouts were bursting forth. He marvelled at the new order, and a fresh desire came upon him. Suddenly he turned upon the trusty, and in answer said convincingly:

“A friend.”

He knew it was of no use to deny his purpose or make any extended explanation; neither was he willing nor the guard desirous that he should. Under the circumstances just one thing would gain his admittance; none in that land knew better than Shibusawa, the newly returned, just what results could be obtained by the judicious use of money. So, when the pompous keeper jerked his steel from the hip and held it abreast his chin, with firm footing and erect body, Shibusawa did not weaken in the least, but boldly approached and unconcernedly dropped a coin in the fellow’s convenient hand.

“All’s well!” shouted the subdued guard, as he turned his back and lowered his arms, the while Shibusawa raised the latch and entered at one side the ponderous gate.

He did not hesitate nor give the matter further thought, but hurried on toward the place which to him bore the most pleasant memory of his life. Each pebble seemed a guide post, and every step an inspiration. He tramped on without either stopping or lagging until the hill had been scaled, and then there came over him grave feelings of doubt and of dread. The pathway was no longer clear. The entrance was a tangled thicket of brier and weeds. He made further progress with difficulty, and when he had reached the mouldy place no friendly sight greeted his eyes. Years of abandonment had obliterated everything except her memory. He paused and looked around, then shuddered, and stumbled toward that side where once the stone steps had marked the entrance. They were still bare, though unused; no trash had gathered there. They were yet as undefiled as they were on the day he had found Kinsan lying upon them. He sat down and searched among the stars for an answer to his heart’s yearnings.

Long he studied as to what had been her fate. Each new thought stirred him to greater determination, every discouragement moved him to plan afresh. He must find her; yet he sat with his face buried in his hands; despair overshadowed him. Then he thought of the old hiding-place, where in days gone by they were wont to secrete such messages as were sacred to them alone. He arose and climbed up to the entrance as if it were but yesterday that he had been there.

He raised the wisteria, which had grown heavy and more dense. Inside the walled den, the webs stretched thicker and stronger than before. Here and there a spider paused, then ran his way. There was no sound, yet a voice bade him enter. He searched, and in the centre found two stones, placed one on top of the other. He knew they were placed there not by accident. Fear overcame him, and he stood breathless, yet powerless. Then he stooped and raised the stone, which revealed a message that to him was sweeter, dearer than all the world.

He hastened back to the cave, and seating himself on the stone steps, where he had pressed her close to him and listened to her golden words of confidence, broke the seal from which there unfolded a musty sheet that in the light of a smiling moon again spoke her heart’s content:

“Dear Love:

“It is for you that I write. None other is worth the while. I am going to-morrow where fate has called me. I have little to offer, except an undying love; all else is theirs; it is decreed right. But so long as the soul is and the heart beats, this love shall be yours and only yours. The spirit which gave it to you shall keep it for you.

“Oh, decree of man, where is your relish! I bow to your will, but in him is my god. My Shibusawa, my love, my light! In you life still has hope. Death shall meet its reward. Think of me a little, do not judge me harshly, let me live as my heart tells me, and I shall die happy. The troubles of the earth will be as the joys of heaven, and you shall be the hand that guides me, saves me—oh, I love you so! I cannot live except for you, I shall not die without you.

“Believe me, your true love, your sweetheart,

“K.’

The puzzled man read the note again and again with care, then leaned back in silence. He had divined only too truly her fate, and when he thought that possibly she, too, had been put up to the highest bidder, a feeling of faintness took hold of him and he bent forward and sat for a long time unable to move or to decide.