  In the Shiro Matsuhaira the Tojin sat alone. They had taken away the untasted meal upon the trays; his pipe lay unlit upon the hibachi; upon a table hard by his American mail and papers lay untouched, unopened. He sat staring at something he held in his hands. It was no larger than his hand, worn, ragged, and soiled—a little sandal of straw! This was all he had left of her. She had passed out of his life as completely as the mist vanishes into the clouds. What were her thoughts now, he wondered dully—now that she knew! He had seen her but once, after the operation. She had come like a shadowy little spirit into his chamber; and she had said nothing at all; had merely looked at him out of her wide, hungry eyes. As silently as she had come, so she had gone! Passively, obediently she had gone with the Be-koku-jin. This was what he had wished, had required of her. Then why this aching, harrowing sense of anguish? He closed his eyes, and gave himself up to the last luxury left him—the casting of his mind adrift upon a sea of memories, wherein he might recall her as she had been, see her again pressed against his side, breathe the dear fragrance of her hair, hear the music of her voice. Outside the wind was whistling and moaning through the leafless gardens, and a rain began to fall, pelting against his shutters, dripping in melancholy splashes from the eaves. How barren, how God-forsaken seemed this Yashiki of feudal days! He recalled his first night in this same chamber. How cold it had been, how penetratingly desolate! Now the winter was coming again. Soon the white snow would wrap its icy shroud about the Palace Matsuhaira, and there would be a silence—a silence less bearable than the grave—out there on those mountains of snow. But the people of Fukui would come to him daily with their problems, their ambitions, and questions; and they would look to him as a guide and supporter along the new glittering road they wished to tread; for the fever of the New Japan was animating the entire nation, and Fukui had caught the epidemic. And they would bestow honors and favors upon the Tojin-san, fame and riches, too; for at the period of the rebirth of a nation its teachers become its prophets—its leaders! Yes, there was such a career to his hand as he could never have attained in that other land, whither they were taking the fox-woman now. It was this, had said the Be-koku-jin, which must be his solace, his comfort. He stood up unsteadily, his hand resting upon the table. Some one had knocked upon his door. He smiled, in the old grim, bitter way. He could not be tricked by his imagination again. She was very far away by now, miles from Fukui, for it was past midnight, and her cortÈge would take an unbroken course toward the great highway which eventually would lead them to the metropolis. But the knocking was repeated, softly, gently, a sound such as a little timid bird in the wet night might have made in beating its wings upon the wall. He heard the soft moving of the doors, and still he did not stir. Now she stood between them, her eyes fully upon him, drawing, compelling his gaze. Upon her vivid, passionate little face there was, at last, that look of peace and rest that comes to one upon a journey’s end. The water dripped from her haori, and clung in glittering drops upon her hair, her lashes. He could not even speak her name. He could only gaze at her entranced, as at that other time when he had come to consciousness within the woods, and had found her face hovering like a spirit’s above his own. She said as if answering the question he could not speak: “Yaes—it is I—To-o-jin-san!” With a motion, inexpressibly sweet, she put out her little hands, just as she had done ere she could see, and a beseeching, quivering little smile was on her lips. “In the honorable wet dark—all those way—I have come bag to you, kind Tojin-san!” His voice shook so that he did not recognize it as his own. “You found your way—” “Wiz these my eyes closed,” she said, “ad udder end those whole worl’—tha’s same thing Tojin-san—I find way bag unto you!” “Why?” he demanded with a rough passion that yet tore and intoxicated him. She reached out her arms to him yearningly, pleadingly. “Tek me ad you arms again!” she said. “Toach me on my lips wiz yours. I will tell you—then!” His last reserve was gone; he had no wish to hold it. Subtly, irresistibly, she had drawn him to her; now he had taken her back into his arms! He felt her little fingers, as of old, passing across his face until they found his lips, and there she placed her own.
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