WHILE the Princess Sado-ko was sitting ruefully among the folded bed things, and pondering upon the weighty question of their disposal, Kwacho and Ohano arrived home in jinrikishas. The former hastened to the kitchen for a cup of tea before departing on a mission to Tokyo, while Ohano hurried up the stairs to her daughter. Ohano was so eager to pour out recent confidences to her daughter, that she labored at every step in her ascent.

When she entered Masago’s room without knocking, as was her custom, she was astonished at the sudden start the girl gave. However, Ohano had such a story to pour out that she did not pause, but said in almost one breath:—

“Masago, I have the greatest news for you—it will make you the happiest of maidens in Kamakura—What! your bedclothes not put away yet? Well—but I must tell you all that happened, at once.”

She broke off breathlessly, her eyes upon the young girl’s face. Something unfamiliar and strange about it stopped her flying tongue. She stared at her in stupefied perplexity, her mouth wide open.

Sado-ko averted her face. With her head slightly turned, she stood in a listening attitude, as though waiting for Ohano to proceed.

“How strangely you looked at me just now!” gasped Ohano, and, leaning over, pulled her sleeve. “Masago! You have not spoken to me yet!”

“I have not had the chance,” said Sado-ko, in a stifled voice.

“Why—your voice is strange! What has happened, daughter?”

Sado-ko attempted to recover her composure, fighting against a sense of weakness that overpowered her at the thought that Ohano would penetrate the disguise. What mother would not have done so? she thought with fear. With some bravado she turned and faced Ohano.

“Nothing is the matter,” she declared. “You—you said you had some news to tell me, mother.” She bit her lip at the last word, as the thought came to her that this woman might not be the mother. The words of Ohano reassured her.

“Well, come and sit here,” she said. “I have much to tell.”

When Sado-ko was seated at her side with averted face, the words of the mother became piteous.

“Your mother always was so stupid,” said poor Ohano, “but, Masago, you really are much changed since your return from school. Yet truly—why, I never noticed it before.” She stopped as though to give the girl a chance to speak, but the latter remained silent.

“Now let me see,” said Ohano, “I will tell you from the first of all that happened. I know, Masago, you will be happy at my news. You see, we waited all the day and all the night for him to come and—”

“For him?” said Sado-ko, in a low voice.

“Yes—for Junzo.”

“Junzo!” She turned toward Ohano with a sudden swiftness. Her eyes were dilated with trembling excitement, “Yes, yes—pray speak on.”

Pausing, Ohano looked in astonishment at the girl’s flushing face.

“Ah, now I know why you seem changed, Masago,” she said finally. “It was thinking all night long upon your wedding. Well, who could blame a maiden for feeling and for acting somewhat—changed?”

“But tell me,” said the girl, pleadingly, “of—of Junzo. Why do you not proceed?”

“Well, we waited for him all the day, Masago, and all the—”

“You have already said that. Do proceed.”

“He did not come.”

“Not come! Why, where—”

“You hardly give me breath to speak to-day, Masago. Do not hasten my words so. I told you that I had good news for you. Be patient, as a maiden should be, and hear my story.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Well, your affianced did not come. Is not that welcome news for you?”

Sado-ko smote her hands together. She had become white, and her lips were quivering.

“Why did he not come?”

Ohano shrugged her plump shoulders.

“The gods alone know why, Masago. It seems he went out early in the day before the fog arose, and—Why, how you startle me to-day!”

With a half-stifled cry the princess sprang to her feet, and stood before Ohano trembling in agitation.

“You do not mean that he has met with harm?” she cried in a horrified tone. “Oh, you sit there smiling when my heart is bursting with its fear. Why do you not explain—”

Her breath came in gasps. She could scarcely enunciate her words. Ohano stared up at her aghast.

“Shaka, Masago! You are beside yourself with most incomprehensible agitation.”

With an eloquent, piteous gesture the girl threw out her hands.

“Oh, will you not tell me what has happened to him?” she cried.

“Happened to whom? You do not mean to Junzo?”

Sado-ko nodded her head and clasped her hands.

“Who else could I mean?” she asked.

“Well, nothing that we know has happened to the man,” said Ohano. “He simply would not come to his own marriage council. The reason is most plain, I think.”

“But the fog—you spoke of it—” The girl was now upon the verge of tears.

“The fog was good excuse for his absence, Masago. Yet no one of the guests believed it was the reason he did not come; and when this morning brought a guard from Aoyama, why, even the most stupid of us all—your simple mother—knew the cause of your fiancÉ’s absence, and why he went to Tokyo.”

The girl repeated the words dazedly. “To Tokyo!”

“So the guard declared. He said that Junzo followed the norimon of the Princess Sado-ko down to the railway station—then—”

Ohano paused at the odd exclamation which escaped the girl.

“Sado-ko!” she said in a soft voice, then began to laugh in a strange fashion.

“Do not mind my silly laughter. I—I am not well to-day. Continue, if you please. Do not stop.”

Ohano looked concerned, but continued obediently.

“The guard informed us that when they reached the station Junzo, acting like one crazed, sought passage on the royal train. This being denied him, he followed on the next, while his parents and relations, and good Kwacho and myself, were waiting for his coming at his father’s house. There is only one solution.”

The girl was laughing softly, yet in a strangely tearful way. She said:—

“He followed Sado-ko!”

“Just so, Masago. She is his patroness, and I have heard—But never mind, you look so pale this morning I will not gossip of that other matter. His parents say the honor paid him at the court has turned his head, but I am of another thought.” She shook her head knowingly. “It is my firm belief, Masago, despite the smooth words of his family and the rough ones of your father, that Junzo went away because he dreaded thought of wedding you. He has another fancy.”

Sado-ko smiled through her tears.

“It is true,” she said, “I do not doubt it. He dreaded thought of union with Masago.”

“Just as you, Masago,” said Ohano, bridling, “dreaded the thought of marrying him. You were ill suited to each other. The gods know best.”

“Yes,” said the princess, softly, “the gods know best.”

She looked out through the casement toward the hills of Aoyama. As though she spoke to herself, she said:—

“He will return. He will understand.” Then, in a lower voice, “He loves me.”

Ohano, engaged in putting away the bedding, had not heard the latter words. As she set them, neatly folded, in a little cupboard, she said in tones of conviction:—

“Do not worry, daughter. He will not return. The gods have given you the freedom that you wished so much. Be thankful—”

Sado-ko did not hear her words. She went to the balcony, and looked with wistful eyes toward her former castle home.

“He will return,” she whispered to her questioning heart, “I am not stranded here alone.”

A thrill of apprehension smote her. Had the change she had effected with Masago been in vain? Would Junzo follow the new Sado-ko? Could it be that his eyes were no keener than those of Masago’s relatives?

All about her the yellow sunlight smiled. The hills were warm. The skies were blue. The air was still and sweet. Peace and silence were everywhere in Kamakura.

“The gods are good,” said Sado-ko, with divine faith; “he must return to me.”