As the laggard sun crept stealthily out of the east, a vision of extraordinary loveliness burst upon them. There, within but the length of a single hill and field from them, the ragged peaks of the old Temple Tokiwa raised a lordly head above the sun-flecked pines.

Stripped of its wealth, but not its beauty, showing the ravages of fire and assault upon its burnished walls, deserted, falling to the decay of neglected age, it was more compellingly majestic than any of the famous structures the Tojin-san had seen.

The approach was over terraces made of countless stone steps, many of them now loose and entirely overgrown with grass and weeds.

The pagoda was of seven stories, its crimson eaves still fringed with shattered wind-bells.

A swarm of pigeons flew about its eaves and roof, and came to meet them in a voluble, almost intelligent cloud. She ran to meet them, holding out her arms and calling and chirping to them. Dipping into her long sleeves, she brought up handfuls of the rice she had not forgotten to bring with her, and threw it generously among them. They pecked at her hand, seeking scoldingly for the food, and sprang upon her shoulders, her head, her hands. Presently, chidingly, she drove them off, shaking her sleeves at them and waving them back.

Now she drew the Tojin into the temple, pushing back its rusty doors with a careful hand.

He was struck with the empty majesty of the interior. It had been stripped of all its treasures, save the great stone images, which still sat inscrutably upon their thrones.

The altar was devoid of vestments; no twinkling lights or swinging censers burned their incense for the delectation of the gods; yet the penetrating odor of sandalwood and the dim fragrance of umegaku and the pine seemed to cling about the very air.

By the great main altar, the hideous old god Bunzura glared at them from beneath his sleepy eyelids, resting fatuously upon his haunches. Before him was the bar where once thousands of slips of paper containing written prayers, were tied. Now it was entirely stripped and glittered up in the face of the god in a mocking irony.

Tama moved softly by the image, pausing only to put her hand upon its knee, caressing it gently, as if with a conciliating, loving pat. It was evident she did not stand in awe of the gods. She had been born among them; knew them as part of her own silent family, exiled like herself upon the mountains.

She even put her cheek against the head of a peculiarly sinister-looking image, who was attended by three smaller gods. The Tojin-san recognized the group. They were in every Buddhist temple. Ema, the Lord of Hell, with his assistant torturers, one of which wielded a sword, one a pen, and one a priest’s staff.

Now she made her first prostration, bowing lowly, and slipping devoutly to her knees. She was in a little alcove wherein no image whatever was to be seen.

As he stood wondering why she should choose this empty corner for her prayers, he perceived upon the wall a curious print or scroll. It was a faded paper chromo, apparently many years old, the picture upon it almost obliterated, the ends of the paper showing charred marks where it must have once started to burn.

A curious sensation stirred within the Tojin, such a feeling as one might only know when in a land of gods one sees for the first time an emblem or a token of one’s own true God; for the tattered, shabby scroll upon the wall was a picture of the Christ!

She seemed to sense his emotion and excitement, and, still kneeling, raised a pair of smiling eyes:

“It is my father’s God,” she said. “To him, mos’ of all; I speag me my petitions.”

“Why to him?” he asked, deeply moved.

“Because,” she answered simply, “he, too, lig’ me, knew trobble. Thas why I speag to him my heart—account I know he—listen!”