The month of March was at hand. Tempestuous winds howled and whirled in the pine and camphor trees, in the flame-like, springing bamboo groves, and under temple eaves. The air was full of petals and scraps of green. Sometimes a tiny flake of flint stung the face, and between the teeth an uncomfortable grit blew in. Angry gray clouds piled high from the north, westward from the Atlantic, eastward from that "rough and black" water we call the Yellow Sea. The very firmament was in torment. The wind, combated at once by many currents, tore at times great eddies in the gray, letting the sun down in avalanches of light. Yuki saw the shadow and the sun pass, like fleeting ghosts, across the garden; felt the chill and warmth alternating in their wakes. The wind tossed cruelly the branches of cherry-trees, where sharp-pointed buds in clusters, just showing a first hint of pink, were set. The plum-tree was bare but for a few timid green leaves. Now and then a twig or branch snapped, and fell sharply on the gravelled pathway, where instantly one of the blue-robed gardeners advanced to pick it up.

In the cowed house Yuki moved like some waxen automaton, living only in the one sense of hearing. Every cry from the street, every wind-jangle of the gate-bell, sent her currents of hope and apprehension. Tetsujo grimly ignored the intensifying strain, but Iriya's pitying eyes turned more often to her child. The servants kept to themselves, whispering and exchanging glances.

Now the bamboo hedges which shut out the main street-line bent over, at times almost to the earth, writhing, stretching, and squeaking at the confining strips of wood that sought to hold them erect. Besides the hedge-bamboo, "sa-sa," the fence had an inner line of cruel orange-thorn.

Yuki had watched the elemental conflict greedily. Suddenly a snatch of Carmen's love-song rode the wind. It was the sound she had expected. Her little hands sought each other within the silken sleeves, and clutched so fiercely that a nail snapped. Again came the song, nearer this time, just without the gate. It was a strange, incongruous note, as if an English lark should rise from the bruised and battered hedge. Yuki heard a movement in the next room, where Tetsujo sat among his books. Perhaps it was coincidence that SuzumÈ brought her, exactly at this moment, a fresh tray of tea. The blue gardeners strolled together into full view, and stooped, as if to discuss the condition of a botan bush, now beaten down.

Square upon the back of one of them fell a queer winged missive, a scrap of foreign paper weighted with a pebble. Yuki saw it clearly. Old SuzumÈ, with a stifled gasp, crouched in her place. The girl poured tea for herself, and drank it calmly. The pelted gardener, without so much as a look around, lifted the scrap of paper as if it had been a broken bud, and slipped it, weight and all, into his sleeve.

The Carmen song stopped. SuzumÈ, with a last sly glance, slipped from the room. Yuki pressed one hand to her throat. It would be no harm to sing the answering strain. What though her father and her jailers heard? If once the song sped forth, not even their craft could recall it. Pierre would understand, then, that she heard, but was a prisoner; that even the written note he threw could not be received. Once, twice, the white lips parted, and the slender throat stiffened for an answering phrase; but no sound came. It was as in nightmare dreams, where one seeks to cry aloud, and finds that the voice is gone.

Now her father was on his feet. She heard his long, swinging stride go through the house. At the door she heard him kick his wooden clogs, and give a gruff order to O Maru San. Then the harsh scraping feet passed along the garden stones, the little bell clamored, and the gate-panel closed with a bang.

"Ma-a-a!" she heard old SuzumÈ cry. "This is not the master I have known for fifty years. He must be bewitched by a fox." Maru gave a little giggle, which the elder woman quickly suppressed. Iriya, in the guest-room, moved like a cat. Yuki knew that all were against her,—spies, enemies. Passages from the Psalms of her Christian Bible came to the girl. "They compass me round about on every side. I am set in the midst of snares." She ran out into the garden, now, listening for sounds of violence from the street. Nothing came but the wailing of wind. Tetsujo returned as abruptly as he had gone. Yuki, steeling herself against the look of aversion certain to be met, went before him, not questioning, but searching his face with haggard eyes for some possible sign of at least a will-conflict between him and Pierre. She fancied, in her abnormal state of mind, that something of Pierre's thought must cling to his enemy, and so be transmitted to her. But Tetsujo's face was as blank and expressionless as the glazed side of one of SuzumÈ's tea-jars on the kitchen shelf.

Unable to breathe longer that overweighted air, Yuki caught up a gray shawl from her room, and went boldly out again into the garden. The rain had ceased entirely. The wind, though fiercer when it came, came at increasing intervals. Through one of these temporary lulls Yuki reached the bleak little pond. The encircling rocks appeared older, grimmer, and more shrunken. A few of the bordering plants had been twisted and split. One was overturned, its ochre roots clutching at the unfriendly air, the evergreen branches plunged deep into quivering gray water.

As if in wonder that so frail a creature as a girl should dare its strength, the storm, crouching and growling for a last effort, hurled the full bulk of its viewless majesty upon her. She was beaten bodily upon the rocks. But for the protecting shawl she might have been blinded, or the long black hair torn from her. For an instant breath stopped; but in the wake of it came exultation. Lifting her head, she smiled a challenge to the storm to snatch her faint soul from her lips, and bear it far, like a petal, on that streaming tide of heaven. The blue-robed gardeners, crouching in the shelter of a rock, stared at her in wonder. Iriya's face came for one white instant to the veranda and vanished. Yuki could hear the very timbers groan. The bands of dead bamboo, lashed in horizontal strips to the living hedge, squeaked and buckled, and squeaked again, in absurd imitation of animate torture. In the pond the pear-shaped water was smitten into one gelatinous, cowering mass.

Suddenly the wind went. Sounds all about her of stress and terror changed into whimpers, whispers, moans, and small complainings. The pond-water sprang up in small simultaneous waves which all pawed and clamored at the rooks for explanation. Yuki stood upright, realizing dully her slow return to sanity and poise. The storm had swept her, for a moment, out of her own reach. In the recoil she grudged her soul its habitation.

Now the nonchalant gardeners crossed her path, making respectful salutation in transit. Her eyes followed them absently, but all at once became glued to a small sagging point in the left sleeve of the shorter man. As they disappeared around the corner plum-tree, she sank to one of the rocks. As if she had not enough to bear already, without the torture of speculation on the purport of those written words she was never to see! Her hands fell limp, her head sank. The gray shawl crept by unnoticed inches to the earth.

Wearily the girl opened the portals of her thought to the same hopeless throng of shrouded visitors,—conjectures, all of them, moving solemnly one behind the other,—creatures without a face,—half-animate forms with no clear direction or purpose except to move on. What was to be the end of it all, for her? There was no answer to that. Tetsujo apparently would neither disown her nor relinquish his determination to marry her quickly. It did not seem much to ask, only to be let alone; and yet in some strange way this had come to be a priceless, impossible boon. Pierre's note she would never see. She had not been able to answer his Carmen song. One way alone remained open for communication, and that was Gwendolen's telegram. She had faith that, in some way, this would get to her. At the cry, "Dempo!" she had determined to rush out in person and demand it. Even though this succeeded, she could not fix great hope on its content. Surely no thought would come to Pierre but the old loving, desperate, appealing cry, "Be true, be faithful, and we may yet find happiness!" How the foreigners harped upon that thought of personal happiness! It was, to most of them, the one definite aim in life. To Pierre—dear, beautiful, joyous Pierre—it was life itself. A Japanese is taught from childhood to look upon happiness as the casual flower of his evergreen garden,—the lotos on a still pond of duty. It is never an incentive, never in itself a conscious reward. She had tried to teach Pierre this, but he had laughed at her, and said it was because Japanese did not know how to love.

Yuki fixed thoughtful eyes on a small shrivelled tuft of fern near her feet. Its once graceful fronds were cruelly bruised and twisted, first by frost, and now by this pitiless storm. "I know how it feels," thought Yuki. "My father's harshness, my mother's suffering, and my own desire to be faithful have so wrung and bruised my heart." After a pause she said aloud, "I wonder if it thinks itself really dead?" She stooped down slowly, and parted the sodden, clinging scraps of brown. In the heart a nest of tiny leaflets curled, like baby glow-worms, close wrapped in silky filaments of down. They seemed to shrink from her icy fingers, as if to say: "Let us be still! We are only asleep. Those tattered brown bed-curtains keep us warm."

Yuki stood upright again. The expression of her face was altered, and her eyes now slowly softened into tears. "My poor Pierre! my poor Pierre!" she whispered. "If he were just a little more noble, if he were a Japanese, he would say, 'It is best that you should obey your parents, and serve at once your native land.' But he will not say it! And I have promised!" She leaned over for another moment, heaping the dead fern-leaves above their sleeping youth, then walked slowly to the house.

One star, at least, shone clear in her troubled firmament. If Pierre should, through Gwendolen's intercession, or through some awakened vision of his own, telegraph, urging her to be true to her better self, no matter what the grief to her plighted love,—then she could wish to marry that great man, HaganÈ, to pay her filial debt to the now stricken parents, to show her love and loyalty to Nippon! Of course there was no hope that Pierre would do this; but if he should,—if he should—!

The wind came again and again, but never so terribly as for that one moment by the pond. Ordinary sounds of domestic life arose from the Onda household, and from the neighbors around it. Cocks began to crow, as if the storm-clearing was of their own contrivance; sparrows chirped. The white tailless cat picked a dainty way along the outer edges of bamboo gutters. Cries of belated peddlers came cheerily from the street.

"To-o-fu-u! To-o-fu-u-u!" called the bean-curd man, with his characteristic upward inflection on the last syllable.

"Chi-chee! Ichiban chi-chee!" cried the milk-peddler, trotting between the shafts of his small, closed cart. He was very proud of this cart, and because of it considered himself the most aristocratic kitchen-visitor on the hill. Its color was a loud, blasphemous blue. On the sides, in letters of yellow edged with black, were two inscriptions. The first, in Chinese ideographs, announced prompt delivery of the richest and freshest milk. Below it, in English, glowed the startling line, "Fresh Ox-Milk Every Hours." SuzumÈ had long been a patron of the blue cart. A little thin-necked milk-bottle dangled, now empty, by a bit of white cord, just without the gate. This the milk-boy removed, substituting one that was full, though equally stopperless.

The soba-ya (buckwheat-man), lurching and skimming along under a bent kiri-wood pole that bore at one end a chest of drawers and at the other a steaming furnace with bowls, copper-pots, and a ladle, naturally had little voice left for vociferous proclamation. His coming was indicated, at long range, by the click and shiver of copper drawer-handles beating in unison against half-filled boxes. According to the quantity of dry buckwheat in each drawer, the handle uttered a different note. Needless to say, this burdened hawker loitered long at each gate; but at the Onda entrance he stayed longest of all. It was Maru's happy privilege to bargain with these several venders. Her heart found an answering thump and shiver as the soba-ya drew near.

"Honorably steamed, or augustly raw, O maiden of the lovely countenance?" asked he of the blushing one.

"Augustly boiled, to-day, kind sir,—if you can graciously condescend to bestow the amount of two sens' worth," rejoined Maru, sucking in her breath with ceremonious emphasis as she presented a small green bowl.

This flirtation was already becoming talked of in the neighborhood. More than one curious "ba-san" (old woman), relieved by age from personal domestic cares, sought peepholes and crannies in neighboring hedges when the smell of buckwheat warmed the air.

The buckwheat man bestowed an encouraging smile. "The noblest of my customers invariably prefer my worthless viands honorably boiled," said he, with a side glance from under the brim of his malachite Derby.

"As for that, you, by preparing so deliciously the delectable food, make buying necessary," simpered the purchaser with a rosier glow.

A slim and seemingly boneless cur, who also had nostrils for hot buckwheat, scraped a stealthy way along the hedge toward them. He felt that the flirtation might have possibilities for him.

"Do-mo!" said the peddler, with deprecating nods. "The stuff is poor, I fear. It is but your divine condescension and pitying heart that make you encourage me." He lifted the copper lid of his cauldron, and began ladling out a goodly portion of the slippery ware.

"Who is the mad young foreigner with yellow hair who now haunts the foot of this hill?" asked the peddler, during his precarious occupation.

"Ma-a!" cried Maru under her breath. She craned her neck to look furtively up and down the street, and then asked in a confidential whisper, "Is there indeed such a person at the foot of this august hill?"

"I speak simple truth. Surely you know of him. In all the roads he is to be seen. He moves so quickly the children say there are two of him. They cry at his approach, though he flings them many rin and sen, and hide faces in their mothers' sleeves."

"Repeat it not from me," cautioned Maru. "Aunt SuzumÈ would surely scorch me with her pipe, should she hear me gossiping. But he is a grand foreigner, son of a king, who is wild with love to marry our Miss Yuki; but she repels him, for she is asked in marriage by a much greater person, of Japan,—a very, very great prince!" Maru swelled her fat chest like a pigeon. The interest in her auditor's face thrilled her. She opened her mouth for further revelations, when a sneeze from the kitchen brought her caution. "I—I dare not tell his name," she added weakly.

"You are honorably to be commended for your prudence," gravely declared the soba-ya, though he was swallowing hard this lump of disappointment. "Prudence is an excellent quality, particularly in a wife. Is it true—er—ahem!—is it true, small round one, that the ancient dame who presides over the kitchen of your noble household is, indeed, your one surviving relative?"

"Te-he-he!" giggled little Maru in blissful discomfort. "She truly is, O most worthy sir,—but why should you wish to know?"

"Much reason is existent," said the other, with such meaning that Maru, after an enraptured gasp, let the entire contents of the bowl tilt, and then fall with a wet thud to the earth. The white cur, having well calculated his chances, reaped the reward of intelligence if not of virtue, and went down the hill with a yelp of joy.

"Kwannon help me!" cried the girl at this catastrophe. "For this a great beating may be honorably bestowed upon me!"

"Nay, maiden, be calm!" said the gallant youth. "Free of charge will I restore it. Give me the bowl!" Tremblingly she did so. Their fingers met beneath the sage-green rim. Maru's round face glowed more like a peony than ever.

"Maru! Ma-roo!" came a voice from within. "Is the buckwheat-man boiling you, that so long you remain? Worthless vagabond! Let him leave at once!"

"It is Aunt SuzumÈ! I must go! Again to-morrow you will augustly pause at our broken-down step, will you not?"

"Though in the night I should make divine retirement, yet to-morrow at this hour would my ghost return to bring your buckwheat!" protested the swain. With one more gasp of ecstasy, and the crossing of two pairs of small slanting eyes, the lovers separated. A moment later the peculiar click and chitter of the metal handles came back through dying gusts of wind.

Tetsujo, immediately after luncheon, returned to his book-room, where now he spent all his waking hours. After some indeterminate search among his well-worn favorites, he took down a volume of Toemmei's poems, a venerable old Chinese classic, and began to read aloud. Iriya, in the kitchen, had already begun to discuss the evening meal. Yuki sat, listlessly, with folded hands, in her own room, next to the library. Her one thought now was to hear the cry "Dempo!" which should announce the coming of Gwendolen's telegram. To look out upon an indefinite period of such days as these was almost more than the girl's brave spirit could endure. Yet, to Pierre she had given an oath. She had let him break the long hairpin. If he commanded her "Be firm and true," she would be true, no matter what came!

Through these dark, monotonous thoughts, her father's voice, low, rich, and sonorous, with the jerky melodic chant and rhythm imposed by long reading aloud of Chinese literature, flowed up and finally compelled her. So had she been taught to read in childhood, before her long sojourn in a foreign land.

"'Let me now return, for my farm and garden are growing wild! As the boat skims lightly along the water, the wind plays with my sleeves. O boatman! how far yet to my home? So far, and yet the hour so late! Now, now at last I see my own loved gate, and enter with joyous rush.'" The deep tones rose as in triumph, then sank again to infinite tenderness. "'The paths to my steps are growing up wild with grass, but the pine and the chrysanthemums still flourish. With my children in my arms I enter the house, drink a refreshing draught, and gaze, and gaze again at the shadows under the garden trees.

"'Return! Return! Why should I not return? Let me renounce the intercourse and pleasure of the world! Let me and the world renounce each other! There is nothing more for me to derive from the world!—

"'The farmers come in and tell me that spring is approaching. There are rumors of war in the West. But why should they interfere with my rambles? The trees put on a smile and begin to bud. The streams look busy and begin to flow. What joy to see all things fall due at their season! And yet I am reminded that my season, too, is almost come. Alas! The lodging of man in this Inn of the Universe is but for a single season!'"

Yuki's hands were pressed against her breast. In the samurai's slow, fervid utterance one could feel each word fill and thrill the heroic heart before utterance came to the lips. He was deriving strength and comfort from the immortal ode. "'Commit then, O soul, thyself upon the current of things!'" rose the exulting pÆan. "'Let me choose my own time. Let me go out for my solitary walk! Let me hobble about the farm on my friendly cane. Let me toil up the Eastern hill, look the clear brook in the face, and sing it my dying songs. So let me end my days as days of themselves may end. So shall my joy flow on with the eternal will of Heaven!'"

Yuki sat upright, her wide eyes fixed, as it were, upon the viewless flight of echo. "And they of the Western world say that my people have no true religion, no deep belief. Their souls crawl, where ours take wings! Nippon, Nippon, my country!"

The magnificence of her nation's past, the heroism, self-sacrifice inherent in her countrymen, the passionate craving for what is spiritual and sublime, the belief in watchful spirits of dead ancestors, in the divinity and guidance of dead Emperors manifest in the living flesh, came in a flood and bore up the girl's spirit in a tide of light. What were foreign education, foreign friendship, foreign pledges,—love itself,—to a girl of Yamato Damashii? She was Japanese, one small animate cell in a living tissue of race. To serve her country, that, indeed, should be life's worth. "Pierre, Pierre," she sobbed. "I shall not bring you joy, nor can you give to me the duty that it is my part to bear. Let me go, dear one, let me go, and pray to our Christian God that your kisses fade from me, and your blue eyes be turned away. If I were only myself I would die, or defy for you everything. But I am not myself; I am what my ancestors, my parents and my country have made me; I am only one shivering mote of dust in my country's shining destiny. Let me go, my dear; Kwannon will bless you!"

Slow, helpful tears began to course, unfelt, along her white cheeks. All at once the physical exhaustion of long, sleepless nights and days unendurable began to tell on her. The glossy head bent over, lower and lower. Tetsujo, after a long pause, had begun an heroic epic of the HeikÉ clan. The words were indistinct, a sort of splendid blur. She had an impression of horses, arms, war-shouts, and of fluttering banners on distant hills. Then all sounds began to die away. She smiled faintly, and stretched out her slender young limbs upon the soft matting. Soon she was asleep, with the long, regular breaths of childhood.

Without stirring, she remained in the unconscious pose for hours. Iriya, peeping in upon her, choked back a little sob of thanksgiving, and turned away to kneel, in her room, before the ancestral shrine. Lights burned here always, and the pleasant aroma of fresh tea was seldom absent. With hands struck very softly together, that the sleeper should not be disturbed, Iriya supplicated the gods of her home and of her nation that the child should be given clearer vision. A European would have demanded personal happiness for her daughter. The Japanese soul sees deeper, and asks, as the highest boon, power to carry out, in this life, that which has been decreed, and so, for the future, to achieve a nobler attitude.

Just at the hour of twilight Iriya returned, and kneeling, called softly, "Yuki-ko—my heart's treasure—you must awake."

Yuki sat upright instantly. "Has the dempo come?"

"Yes," said Iriya, presenting a pink sealed missive. "And in the guest-room waits Prince HaganÈ."

Yuki tore the telegram apart, threw open the shoji for more light, and read: "Find it impossible to do anything with P no logic or reason pathetic but a child we all think case hopeless forever in your place would accept H whatever happens I am your loving faithful G."

"It is a terribly long message to come in such an expensive way. Surely it is from a foreigner," ventured Iriya.

"How long has it been here, mother?"

Iriya showed embarrassment. "Since about noon, I believe. SuzumÈ honorably received it and gave it to her master, as she was bid. Your father would not let you have it now, but that Prince HaganÈ took it from his hands and sent it. He says you are to read and consider it; also that you must not hasten. What marvellous kindness he always shows, that great man!"

Yuki rose slowly. "He is great and kind. Give thanks to him, my mother, and say that I shall enter within a few moments."

Iriya prepared to leave. She had searched her daughter's eyes for a loving recognition, but in vain. On the threshold she wavered. "My baby,—my only one!" she cried aloud brokenly, and held out her arms. In an instant, before Yuki could respond, she closed the fusuma and ran toward the guest-room.