It was with mingled feelings of pleasure and, perhaps, pain that Takashima Orito saw his home once more. The place had scarcely changed since he had left it eight years before. It seemed to him but a day since he and NumÈ had played on the shores of the Hayama, and had gathered the pebbles and shells on the beach. He remembered how NumÈ would follow him round wherever he went, how implicitly she believed in him. Surely, if he lived to be a hundred years old never would such confidence be placed in him again—the sweet, unquestioning confidence of a little child. After dinner Orito left his father and Omi to go outside the house and once more take a look at the old familiar scenes of his boyhood; once more to see Fuji-Yama, the wonderful mountain that he had known from his boyhood, and of which he had never tired. There it stood in its matchless lonely peace and splendor, its lofty peaks meeting the rosy beams of the vivid sky, snow-clad and majestic. Ah! the same weird influence, the same inexplicable feeling it had always produced in him had come back now, and filled his soul with an ardent, yearning adoration. Every nerve in the young man bespoke a passionate artistic temperament. Many a time when in America, wearied with studying a strange people, strange customs, and a strange God, his mind had reverted to Fuji-Yama—Fuji-Yama, the mount of peace, and in his heart would rise an uncontrollable longing to see it once more, for it is said that no one who is born within sight of Fuji-Yama ever forgets it. Though he might roam all the world over, his footsteps inevitably turn back to this spot. Standing majestically in the central part of the main island, snow-clad and solitary, surrounded by five lakes, it rises to the sublime altitude of 12,490 feet. It is said that its influence is almost weird—that those who gaze on it once must always remember it. They are struck not so much by its grandeur as by its wonderful simplicity and symmetry. It is suggestive of all the gentler qualities; it is symbolic of love, peace, and restfulness.

Orito remained outside the house for some time, his face turned in mute adoration to the peerless mountain, no sound escaping his lips. When his father joined him he said, with a sigh: "Father, how came I ever to leave my home?"

The old man beamed on him, and leaned against his shoulder.

"Ah, my son, it pleases me much that you have found no spot more beautiful than your home. Most long have the days been without you. Tell me somewhat of your life in America."

"My father," the young man answered, "the world outside my home is turbulent and full of a restlessness that consumes the vitality of man and robs him of all peace." He pointed towards the mountain: "Here is rest, peace—Nirvana, rest from the pulse of the wild world."

The old man looked uneasy. "But, my son, surely you do not regret your travel?"

"No, father," said Orito. "Life is too short for regrets. It is folly to regret anything. Here in this land, where all is so beautiful, we sleep—perhaps a delicious, desirable sleep; but though there be beauty all about us, all that the heart could desire, the foolish heart of man still is not content. We cannot understand this restlessness that makes us want to leave the better things of life and go out into the world of sorrow, to leave beauty and rest behind us, and exchange it for a life of excitement, of shams and unrealities."

Old Sachi looked frightened at his son's words. He did not quite comprehend them, however. The son seemed to perceive this, and changed the subject quickly.

"Where is NumÈ, my father? I have not yet seen her. She must surely be a young lady now."

Once more the old man's face lighted up with pride and interest.

"I thought you would be tired after your long voyage, and would not care so much to see any one but your father. Therefore, when she desired to visit her American friends her father permitted her to do so." He smiled at his son. "You will see her to-morrow. She is now a young maiden, and you will not know her at first."

"No—perhaps not," the young man said, sadly. "I can think of her only as the little wild plum blossom of ten years. I shall not care for her as well now that she is a—perhaps—polite maiden of eighteen."

"You should rather like her better, now that she is a beautiful maiden instead of a mere baby, for it is the nature of man to prefer the woman to the child."

"Yes, I understand, father, but it is so many years since I have seen a Japanese girl, and I have grown more used to the American woman."

A shrewd look crept into the old man's face.

"Omi and I thought of that long ago, and for that reason we encouraged her to be with the Americans greatly, so that she has learned to speak their tongue, and often becomes almost as one of them."

"But, father, I would not wish her to be an American lady. She could not be—you cannot make a Japanese girl into an American girl. She would be more charming solely as a Japanese maid."