With the Imperial Restoration in Japan—an event, in time, just thirty-five years before the date mentioned at the beginning of this story—many of the nobles of Japan met with ruin. This was especially the case with the "hatamoto," a class directly dependent for revenue and patronage upon the favor of the usurping "Shogun." The real Emperor, then a boy of sixteen, living in seclusion at Kioto, was still nominal ruler and spiritual head of the government, forming a sort of "Holy Roman Empire," translated into terms of Buddhism. When, as a result of revolution and many sharp, fierce battles, this boy was brought in triumph to take his rightful place as temporal ruler also, with a new court in the great capital of Tokio, the Shogun, direct descendant of the mighty Iyeyasu, went into dignified retirement. Over-rich monasteries and temples, arrogant after centuries of Tokugawa benefice, were forced to part with broad lands, and even, in certain instances, with personal treasure. The simpler "Shinto" faith, an indigenous nature-spirit and ancestor-worshipping creed, opposed its principles to gorgeous Buddhist forms. The pure spirit of the younger faith and the profundities of its philosophy did not suffer. The blow was aimed at externals. The child-like Japanese soul to-day kneels with equal sincerity at a wayside Shinto shrine or before the gold-hung altars of Sakyamuni.

This revolution, then, was threefold and complete. Politics, religion, society, shifted within their national circle and assumed new aspects. The centre of all was the young ruler, Mutsuhito. Now the "kugÈ," or court nobles of Kioto, who had willingly shared retirement and comparative poverty with this true descendant of the gods, came again into power. But besides these two classes, the hatamoto and other dependent samurai, and the kugÈ, was still a third,—the most important,—the daimyo or feudal lords of the empire. Some among these had never yet given satisfactory hostages to the Shoguns, and lived always in a state of insolent pride and suppressed insurrection. At need of their Emperor, the true mettle of their loyalty rang out. Men, money, lives, property, were poured out like water for this beloved cause. Those who had been haughtiest to the Shoguns bowed now in deepest reverence to the boy Mutsuhito, in whose veins ran the blood of their ancient dynasty. He was to them truly divine; not in the impossible, superstitious sense, but as a sort of human channel flowing between the old gods and modern men. Through him were reconstruction and new national glory to be gained. A life laid down in his cause were but newly come alive.

Prominent among such patriots was the old Daimyo of Konda, father of the present Prince HaganÈ. His title more literally translated would be that of "Duke," or "Feudal Prince." His lands, lying far to the south, with a rough channel to divide them from the mainland, held almost a separate and independent existence. His chief province, and the one from which he took his title, was Konda. "HaganÈ" was the family name. At the first hint of national uprising the old daimyo, abandoning his own loved home, came at once to Kioto, and later made the journey with the young Emperor to Yedo. By right he assumed the place of guardian and adviser. The old daimyo was, as it chanced, somewhat learned in foreign matters, and this, in spite of the Shogun's rigid exclusion of all things foreign, of the death-penalty to any Japanese attempting to leave Japan, or, having managed to leave, attempting to return. This was a mighty armor of self-protection to the Tokugawa policy; but, in common with most armor, it had just one small flaw. In this case the flaw was a tiny island, granted to the Dutch, called "Deshima." Not far from the Konda borders lay this innocent fleck of earth, surrounded by blue native seas, and overgrown, like other islands, with tall feathery bamboo, camellia, and camphor trees; and yet, because of its existence, HaganÈ gained foreign books,—from it he smuggled a Dutch interpreter who could read and write not only his own language, but Japanese. Other curious minds drew near this spring of knowledge; and, partly because of it, long before Perry's expedition to the Far East, the Japanese people had become restless, eager, awake, and in ferment for a national readjustment.

HaganÈ's one son, SanÈtomo, a few years older than the boy Emperor, and reared as nearly in friendship with him as reverence would allow, was among the first youths of his class to travel in Europe, and to acquire any European language. Upon his father's death, he was asked by the Emperor to take at once the offices and semi-royal prerogatives of the lamented elder statesman. All the daimyos had received national bonds for the alienation of their fiefs; and thus those who had been most powerful still enjoyed great wealth in their own right.

With the Emperor once firmly established, etiquette and the restrictions of court-life began to prove irksome to SanÈtomo. One could have continued to practise fine manners under the Shoguns. Here to-day was something better. A new army was to be formed; after that a new navy. HaganÈ advised adaptation of tactics from the German military school, its unbending automatonism appearing to him a safe restriction for enthusiastic beginners. From the first, however, his mind had been fixed upon the administrative methods of that marvellous small heart of an enormous empire, England. Japan should be to the Far East what England had become to the West. What one island had accomplished, that also could another do.

The Japanese nation as a whole went reeling drunk with over-potations of foreign ideas. For a while it seemed that everything Japanese was to be swept away. The small opposition party, frenzied by the apparition, took hideous revenge in murder, assassination, and suicide. HaganÈ's faith did not for a moment waver. After excess comes nausea, reaction. So had his countrymen, in more than one epoch now long past, drunk in the new. In time they would reject the unneedful, and infuse new power in what they had adopted. The thinkers of his empire could afford to wait.

When the new constitution was promulgated in February, 1889, there was rejoicing such as this old earth seldom sees. HaganÈ was created Minister of War. This position he had continued to hold, with varying intervals. He was now the incumbent. Much of his time was spent, perforce, in the "foreign" official residence, well within sight of the Imperial moats. Most of such edifices in Tokio are depressing. This was particularly cheerless. The house of brick, wood, and plaster, chiefly plaster, stood full two stories high, was of ample dimensions, and had a huge, square, blue-tiled roof. Though planned and built by the most artistic nation now alive, it had not one line of beauty, nor one successful effort after fine proportion. In these early days it seemed an accepted creed among the Japanese that anything to be truly "foreign" must necessarily offend the eye; yet, thought the ingenuous pupils, since ugliness apparently goes in the company of wealth, power, material welfare, and political recognition,—why, by all means, let us be uglier than the foreigners themselves!

Around the house lay something called a garden, a watery emulsion of American flower beds and a Japanese landscape creation. The effect of the whole place was amorphous, unstable, depressing, with the one redeeming feature of bigness.

Onda Tetsujo, speeding toward this haven in his hired jinrikisha, rattled along the uneven stone of the street, and then turned into the one great entrance of the imposing shell. The garden wall had a secret gate or two, but these were generally kept bolted. The storm of the early morning was abating. A drizzling, discouraged rain, with irregular gusts of wind through it, persisted in efforts to exclude all cheer. Onda knocked at one of the rear doors of the Japanese wing, and was but little surprised to hear, from the man who opened for him, that his Excellency the Prince, having transacted all official business for the day, had now retired to his "besso" (villa) on the high land of suburban "Tabata."

Onda re-entered his vehicle and gave the curt order, "Tabata." In the street he added, "Call an atoshi, and pull up the hood and oil-cloth." An atoshi, or "Mr. After," was summoned, the oil-cloth hood of the jinrikisha drawn far over and held in place by a single black cord knotted to one shaft. A sort of oil-cloth lap-robe, hung up in front and hooked to the inner lining of the hood, afforded complete immunity from wetting. Within the careful adjustment sat Tetsujo, blinking and scowling. The day had brought him a new and unwelcomed experience,—defiance from a woman. He wondered, as he was dragged along the viscid street, whether, in the happy, vanished feudal days, any warrior of his clan had known a similar indignity. There was on record the case of a wilful bride who, married against her wishes to an Onda chief, had disguised herself in a suit of armor grown too small for him, and sought heroic death in battle. But even this was better than open insult and defiance. Well, Yuki must be watched closely. Her education and beauty were not to be thrown away on a foreigner who, likely as not, would tire of and desert her. She must marry a young Japanese already well along on the way to official or military promotion. When this Russian war came, Japan would need all her people, men and women. His only child should not be given over to the loose affections of a foreigner. He scowled anew at the thought, and gave so savage a sound that his coolies stopped short in the road to inquire whether the honorable master were in pain.

"No," growled Tetsujo, in return, "a warrior does not feel pain; that is for babes and women."

A few minutes later the redoubled grunts and groans of his bearers—evidently sharing shamelessly the weaker prerogatives of the other sex—told Tetsujo that they had begun the ascent of the Tabata slope. At the eastern edge, where the hill goes down like a cliff, and one looking far out over rice-fields sees the Sumida River finding a shining road to Tokio, and the great twin peaks of Tsukuba-yama standing guard over the other half of the world, spread the broad eaves of Prince HaganÈ's villa.

Onda gave a sigh of relief as he stepped out under the door-roof.

"O tanomi moshimasu!" (I make request) he called, rapping on the closed shoji panels with his knuckles.

"Hai!" came almost instantly from within, and a housemaid was on her knees pushing the panels softly aside, a hand on each.

"The august one—is he within?" asked the visitor.

"Hai! Illustrious Sir. Deign to mount the step, and, seating yourself on the hard mats, be refreshed by our tasteless tea and worthless cakes, while I hasten to announce your joy-giving appearance."

Tetsujo dismissed his kuruma men, shook off his shoes, and remained seated on the mats, still with folded arms, still deep in thought. The little maid, returning quickly, murmured that "the noble master would receive his honorable guest at once."

Prince HaganÈ sat alone in the great room, immediately surrounded by boxes and trays with tea, writing, and smoking outfits. There was one beautiful hibachi, or firepot, of hammered brass. An English book on International Law lay on the floor beside him among newspapers in Japanese, Chinese, English, French, and German. Passages in these papers had been heavily marked by the blue and red pencil still held in the reader's hand. He did not rise or bow as Tetsujo entered, merely turning his face toward the opened fusuma and saying, "Most welcome, good Tetsujo. Enter and forget the storm."

"I fear I have brought the storm in with me, your Highness," Tetsujo could not refrain from crying. He fell on his knees just within the door, bowed many times, and drew in his breath loudly. HaganÈ lifted an unread newspaper and made several markings while Tetsujo continued his genuflections. Having at last completed a number satisfactory to his sense of propriety, he sat upright. HaganÈ folded this last paper, and put it into a heap with the others.

"Draw nearer," he said with a smile. "It is a day for a chat between old friends. No, be not so humble—nearer yet—I insist. Now—that is better and more companionable. Pour yourself some tea."

"Honors are heaped upon your unworthy servant," rejoined Onda, pouring tea, first for the prince, then for himself. "I have just come from the official residence of your Highness. How cold and un-homelike appear all foreign houses; while this—" he paused to look slowly around—"this warms a man's heart to see."

"Though insignificant, it has a certain restfulness," admitted the host. "Lacking a mistress, it cannot seem in reality a home."

Tetsujo's face clouded. "Speak not to me of mistresses, Lord," he mumbled sourly.

HaganÈ gave him a queer glance, but said nothing. He understood well the nature of his own kerai. So angular a thought as now distressed him must soon work its way to the surface of speech. "To-day I am in mind of the Chinese sage who taught us that all women are mere manifestations of demoniac force. They are sent here to tempt us—to test—to torment. Would that I could reach a heaven of warriors, untainted by their sex—!"

"Surely, my Tetsujo," interrupted HaganÈ, gravely, "those of your household bring no torment. I have never known a better wife than Iriya."

"I complain not of Iriya," said the other, a hint of excitement creeping into his voice; "but, Lord, had you seen that ingrate that I must call my daughter! Had you seen Yuki an hour since, you would have perceived what the Chinese mean by she-demons."

"Yuki!" echoed HaganÈ, this time in genuine surprise. "Is there not some mistake? Yuki is spirited; but I cannot picture her as a—demon!"

"I will honorably relate the event. My heart, with the memory, seethes and bubbles as a small cauldron." In a voice often shaken from control by passion, with a dark countenance slowly deepening into a bronze red of agitation, Tetsujo imparted the story of his child's defiance. Not once did Prince HaganÈ lift his head, not even when Tetsujo, beating the matted floor in his rage, roared out, "Her eyes flashed, my Lord, like those of a dragon-maid in battle! They scorched me like sparks! They would not fall though I sent out the whole volume of my will to quench them. It was defiance—defiance—naked and unashamed! The very air around me turned to flame. Murder dried my tongue. Had I worn my short swords as of old,—"

HaganÈ gave an exclamation and looked up. "What then! Are you yourself a demon, Tetsujo,—or a father? Scorn to you, thus speaking of a maid! It was your own strong spirit darting upon you from her bright eyes. Gods! the look of her must have been magnificent!"

"Magnificent! Yes, as hell, perhaps, is magnificent! Think you not, Lord, that she deserves death for such impiety?"

"My poor Tetsujo," said HaganÈ, "I pray you, quaff more tea and be calm. You alone cannot walk backward, when the rest of the nation races to the fore. Yuki's death for such a cause would certainly mean your hanging, and, in my opinion, a fate that you would well deserve. Come now, let us reason like men, not squirm and crackle like live devil-fish thrown upon coals. The point of the matter is, that your daughter wishes to marry one of her choice, and not one of yours. Naturally, you oppose this."

"Oppose!" echoed Tetsujo, straining in his seat, "I forbid it! I defy her to attempt it! Should she persist, she shall have my curse and that of my ancestors—"

"Nay, nay, my Tetsujo, be calm. Anger is the worst leak in a man's store of self-respect. I cannot talk further until you grow calm." He paused and slowly poured for himself a cup of tea, as if to give the old warrior time for self-recollection.

Tetsujo drew a tenugui from his sleeve, mopped his damp brow, pulled his kimono collar into smoother folds, and settled, by degrees, into an appearance of tranquillity. Now and again a small convulsive shudder still passed over him, a movement involuntary and uncontrollable, such as is seen in a runaway horse brought suddenly to a stand.

"Now let me question," began HaganÈ's deep tones again. "Answer nothing, my friend, but what I ask. Are you certain that this man, whom our little Yuki thinks she loves, is, indeed, a foreigner?"

"I am not honorably certain, your Highness, even of so much. But I think he is a foreigner. No Japanese, not even a street scavenger of Yedo, as I told her—"

HaganÈ raised a hand for silence. "You should, first of all, have ascertained his race, his name, and his profession. He may be a hired Russian spy for all we know."

Tetsujo almost bounded from his place. "A Russian spy! God of Battles,—I thought not of that!"

"And did you bethink you to inquire whether the—person—had already followed her to this country?"

Tetsujo's eyes rolled fearfully. He found no ready words. "My Lord—my Lord—" he gasped.

"You now perceive, Tetsujo, there are better things for a man to do with his wits than ignite them, and, with the burning bits, play a foolish jugglery. Our first concern is to find out whether or not that man is here."

Tetsujo bowed over to hide his chagrin. "Your wisdom is that of Do-ku and Benkei Sama in one," he murmured.

HaganÈ stuffed and lighted a small pipe. "When you met your daughter on the hatoba at Yokohama were there young males of the party?"

"Hai, master. I recall now two strange and alert ones who appeared to be young."

"Was one of a pink color, like buds of a kaido bloom, and eyes a deep-blue color?"

"All were red and hideous. The one who tried to speak with me had rice-straw on his head in place of decent hair."

"Ah," said HaganÈ, puffing at his pipe.

"Yes, your Highness, and in our conversation she informed me that the Todds were well aware of her shameful passion, and that the women upheld it."

Silence fell between the men. Tetsujo bit his finger-nails in his impatience.

"In three more days," began the other, slowly, "Mr. Todd will be formally presented to his Sacred Majesty; after that ceremony he will not, I think, permit his women to aid Yuki in a marriage which is against your wishes and—mine."

Onda gave a joyful start.

"Wait," said HaganÈ, "there is more to be said; I must take a moment's counsel with myself." At these words he fell into a reverie so profound that his spirit seemed to be absent from his breathing body.

Tetsujo controlled himself as best he could. The whole affair was galling to his pride. He resented even HaganÈ's knowing of the indignity; yet he had no recourse but HaganÈ. The rain-water, trickling with a sound of dull clinking coins down the tin corner-spouts, irritated him to madness. He hated the little wet sparrows who sat up under the eaves and exchanged uncomplimentary remarks about the weather. HaganÈ's power of concentration was in itself reproof and another source of irritation. The great man came to himself without a start.

"Listen, Onda Tetsujo, I will offer advice, but it must be taken entire. I will have no variation, mind you, or personal addition."

"I shall receive it humbly, on my head," grumbled the kerai.

HaganÈ controlled a smile. "Upon your return, treat the maiden gently. Defiance is her best armor. We must not be harsh. Win her confidence by renewed kindnesses. If possible, bend your haughty will to the point of expressing regret for this morning's anger."

"Excuse myself to a woman—to my own daughter!"

"I shall not insist upon that point. I said only if it were possible. Some things are not possible, even to a Buddha."

"And this is even such," cried Tetsujo.

"Let it pass. My purpose may be accomplished without. It is indispensable, however, that you be kind. Give to her, unsolicited, permission to invite the women of the Todd family to your home."

"This, too, is difficult," muttered Tetsujo; "but with the aid of Fudo Bosatsu (BodhisÀttwa of the Fiery Immovability) I can achieve it."

"Excellent," said the other; "now for my part. I will, on the day of Mr. Todd's presentation, arrange for a banquet here at Tabata, to which I will invite the family of Mr. Todd and also the two young men whom you saw at Yokohama. If Yuki's foreign lover is here at all, he is of that party."

"I am not worthy of such deep thought and consideration at your hands, Lord," said Tetsujo, gratefully.

"Be not deceived. It is for Yuki's sake as well. Since her early childhood I have watched with deep interest the growth of her fine intellect and the development of her unusual beauty. Lacking children of my own, I have felt something of a father's affection for her. I too wish to keep her for Japan. I approve not the thought of a foreign marriage."

Tetsujo lifted his head. "One question more, your Highness. Is it your belief that Yuki will surely betray herself, if indeed the foreign devil whom she—she—well, the foreign devil,—should arrive?"

"I think she cannot utterly deceive us both," said HaganÈ, diplomatically.

Still Onda looked doubtful. "Yesterday I should have said the same; but since this defiance—this exhibition of unwomanly strength—"

"My life has been one long school of human character. Yuki will not deceive us both," reiterated the Prince.

"I am content. I will now remove my worthless body from your sight, having claimed already far too much of your august consideration." Tetsujo bowed and rose. The other rose also, following him half across the room.

"There is yet one bit of counsel," said he. "For the next three days, until the banquet, Yuki must not leave the house alone. Let her go where she will, Tetsujo, but be you always near. If a foreigner should force entrance, or stop your daughter on the street, allow no private speech between them; and if he persist, as mad foreigners will, call the nearest guard, and make free use of my name."

"Your mercy is as wide as Heaven, Lord," murmured the kerai, as he finally took his departure.

Through the gentle and most willing mediator, Iriya, Tetsujo transmitted his willingness to receive Yuki's foreign friends. This sudden clemency, riding on the very back of fury, turned to the girl a masked face of new fear. She knew her father incapable of such sudden reversion, or of the subtlety implied. A stronger power was behind him. She was to be watched and experimented upon. Yet, in spite of this intuitive belief, she could not put aside the opportunity of seeing her friend, of hearing from her lover.

A messenger bore her carefully worded note to the American Legation. Mrs. Todd and Gwendolen responded almost instantly. The former overwhelmed her with endearments and reproaches, an exhibition embarrassing to the girl and terrifying to Iriya. The servants peeped in through chinks in the hall shoji, and at this sight Maru clapped a hand to her mouth to keep from shrieking, and, fleeing to the backyard, rocked to and fro, sobbing, "The big foreign lady is eating our young mistress; oh, what terrible creatures are the foreigners!"

Meanwhile Mrs. Todd, happily unconscious of the effect she was producing, continued her volley of ejaculations. "My dearest child! Such relief when your note came. Gwendolen and I were almost distracted, weren't we, Gwendolen? Of course Cyrus called us geese, and said we were making mountains out of mole-hills; but Cy is always disagreeable when we get into a twitter. But I can assure you, my dear, there is one man at least who does not think us silly; he has been worse off than either of us, hasn't he, Gwennie?"

"Be careful—be careful," said Yuki, in a low voice.

Iriya was in the room, a very figure-head of a hostess with her reserved, timid ways and lack of fluent English. She managed now by gestures, and a very careful use of certain phrases learned by rote from a book of foreign etiquette, to invite her guests to be seated. When this was accomplished, not without many suppressed grunts from the stout lady, Gwendolen managed to get near her friend, and to put out a cool, slim hand, with a pressure of re-assuring love. Yuki clasped the hand quickly, but did not forget another warning look. She leaned next toward the great cluster of hot-house flowers which the American girl wore at her belt, and, under cover of examining them, whispered, "My father is already opposed to me. I do not know what to do. Even writing a letter is impossible. Only tell him to be patient, and have faith."

"He's beside himself," returned Gwendolen, in the same suppressed voice. "He carries on like a girl at a matinÉe; but this word from you will help him. Of course all of us knew that something was going wrong."

Mrs. Todd, to divert attention from the whisperers, engaged Iriya in vociferous conversation. "Yuki back again! You very happy?" she asked in a loud voice, as if her hostess were deaf.

"Yes," rejoined Iriya, timidly, in English, "we are quite hap-pee."

"Why, she understands beautifully!" cried Mrs. Todd to the two girls, in triumph, as at a personal achievement.

"Mother reads English well, and even in talking she understands things, when one is thoughtful to speak slowly and emphatic, as you have done, dear Mrs. Todd. But she is bashful about the trying," said Yuki.

"She needn't be, I'm sure!" cried the matron. "She pronounces real well. But it's a never-ending marvel to me how these people pick it up. Why, there's hardly a shop in the Ginza where they don't talk it! I'm sure I'll never catch on to your queer language, Yuki-ko, if I live here a hundred years."

"Come look at my dear plum-tree that I used to talk about in America," said Yuki to Gwendolen, rising as she spoke. Iriya looked up in consternation. Her artless face showed perfectly that she had been forbidden to let Yuki from her sight. Behind a certain closed fusuma panel, the one opening directly into Tetsujo's study, came a very low sound, as if of a stifled cough. Yuki threw a sad little smile back over her shoulder to Iriya. "I am not going from the veranda, mother," she said in English.

"Good heavens!" whispered Gwendolen, as they reached the further side of the room, "are you a condemned prisoner already?"

"No," said Yuki, "but I am a watched one. It is too humiliating."

"Are they afraid Pierre will run away with you?"

"They know nothing of Pierre, only that I wish to choose for myself the man I am to marry. They do not even certainly know that he is a foreigner. I must keep them from knowing, or they will be more angrier yet."

"Your father is not exactly a lover of foreigners, is he?" asked Gwendolen, dryly.

Yuki gave a sorry little smile. "And a Frenchman, Gwendolen,—a Frenchman with the Russian mother! It is going to be a long, hard fight, like the coming war itself. But I must be brave. My promise I have given to Pierre."

"Poor darling," cried Gwendolen, clasping her closer, "I almost wish you hadn't; but, of course, when one is in love,—I have a letter for you here. Shall you dare take it?"

Yuki flushed and looked miserable, as she said, "Yes, I shall take it, though I must use the deceit. I will for the first time deceive. When we go back, put it on the floor in your handkerchief, and I will take it up. I feel to be sick at the thought of such treachery to my parents; but what am I to do?"

Neither had much thought for the beautiful plum-tree now opening optimistic blooms after the storm of yesterday. As the girls came into the room together, Mrs. Todd said to Yuki, "Your mother tells me that you are all invited to the banquet of Prince HaganÈ for next Friday."

"Yes," said Yuki, smiling and seating herself near the speaker, "we have accepted; but at the last moment mother will find some good excuse for staying away. She always does. Is not that true, Mama San?"

The substance of the loving gibe being translated, Iriya blushed and tittered, and put her face to her sleeve, like any schoolgirl. "Naugh-tee Yuki-ko," she managed to say, "make bad talk of Mama San!"

At this moment the bell of the entrance gate gave a jangle unusually loud and abrupt. Immediately bare feet of servants were heard scurrying about the floors of the house. Iriya drew her head erect to listen. "It is another honorable visitor," she murmured, and half arose, sinking back, as she remembered her husband's injunction.

Yuki's heart had begun to beat. There was something most un-Japanese in the harsh, sudden clamor of the tiny bell. Masculine footsteps, unmistakably in foreign shoes, came around by the kitchen side of the house through rows of green "na," and crunched the gravel of the paths. Yuki's face went white. This was a breach of etiquette possible only to a foreigner, and to one newly arrived in Japan.

As the group of four women gazed outward, not knowing what to expect, Pierre Le Beau's high-bred, sensitive face, a little worn by the suspense of the past three days, came around the corner, and stared at them across the narrow, polished veranda. Yuki and Iriya were alike incapable of speech. A sulphurous, low growl was heard behind the fusuma.

"Shake off your shoes and join us," came Mrs. Todd's loud, jovial command.

"If Miss Onda repeats the invitation," said he, with eyes upon the shrinking girl.

Iriya bowed without realizing what she did. It was against all decency for women to receive, alone, a male visitor. She longed to call her husband, but did not dare. For once in her courteous, quiet life, Iriya Onda was at a loss what to do. Yuki made up her mind quickly. Though her heart longed, burned to have him near, she knew that he must be sent away. If he came in, Tetsujo would realize instantly who it was, and would transmit the knowledge to his shrewder and more far-sighted monitor. She was helpless, alone, unarmed, but none the less determined to fight the battle of a love to which she had promised fidelity. With effort she raised herself to a stiff, upright posture, and, keeping her voice clear and cold, she said, "Sir, if my honored father were at home he would doubtless entreat you to enter, but in his absence, neither my mother nor myself have authority to take that pleasant duty upon ourselves. If you will pardon my great rudeness, sir, we shall need to be excused from receiving you at all."

For an instant the young man stared. Slowly his face grew white. He gave one glance of concentrated love, pain, and resentment, and then passed, without a word, along the edge of the veranda, and under the out-leaning plum-tree. Yuki, watching him with a dying heart, felt that never again could she look upon her favorite tree without seeing that fair, bowed head beneath the branches. Mrs. Todd gaped, incredulous, at the girl. Gwendolen alone realized the situation. She sprang to her feet instantly. "Mother!" she cried, "the young man came for us, of course. We have trespassed too long on Mrs. Onda's hospitality; now let us join our unfortunate visitor at the gate and have him ride home with us, I have something of importance to say to him."

Yuki gave a little sob of gratitude and relief. Mrs. Todd, partly comprehending, heaved upward to her feet. "Yes," she said to Gwendolen, but with a disapproving glance poured, full-measure, upon the Japanese girl, "let us ask him to ride home. The poor fellow looked as if the earth had crumbled under his feet."

Yuki felt the reproach. She could have laughed aloud at the irony of it.

Mrs. Todd walked in what she supposed a stately fashion across the room. Her feet pressed into the soft matting as into a stiff dough, leaving behind her a track of shallow indentations.

At parting Gwendolen whispered in her friend's ear, "I understood. Your father has been watching all along. I will make things clear to the other."

When the panelled gate was closed once more, and the little bell cold after long reverberation, Yuki felt a great physical shudder. Her nerves demanded of her the respite of tears, but still she held herself in check. The luxury of weeping and the hidden letter alike must wait until a night hour when the rest of the house was asleep.

She went out into the sunshine of the garden, well within sight of the house. She tried not to think, or to allow forebodings. Against the old plum-tree she leaned, catching idly the white drifting petals. Each might have been a separate poem, so freighted is Japanese lore with fancies and exquisite imagery drawn from this favorite flower. The transience of life, its sweetness, fidelity to natural law, wifehood and womanly tenderness, rebirth, immortality,—all these thoughts and more came to her softly as the petals came. Through each mood, like the clang and clash of brass through low melody, recurred the vision of Pierre—of his yellow hair beneath the old plum-tree. But with the petals fell uncounted moments, heaped less tangibly into hours. So passed the day and succeeding days.