PRIL danced lightly over the land. Merrily she flung her rainbow showers of sweetest water upon the earth, the trees, the fearsome grass which March had coaxed in vain to do more than peep its head above the soil. Now the land was covered with a mantle so soft and tender that its young life seemed a thing that it were wanton to crush beneath the foot.

Early, early in the morning, before the birds and flowers had cocked up their little heads to seize the first sun-kiss, a lover stood in a garden all made of gently sloping hillocks, crowned with trees whitened, as if frost-laden, with the full bloom of the cherry and plum. And the lover’s voice called softly and tenderly to his lady’s casement:

“Lady Wistaria! My sweetest Wistaria!”

At first there was no response. Moving nearer the casement, he called again:

“Sweetest, dearest one, will you not come to your window for a minute—but a fraction of a minute?”

Softly a hand slid back the shoji—a slender, small, expressive hand of perfect form and contour, and then a young girl’s face appeared at the opening. Her eyes were very dark, and infinitely, intensely sad in expression. Indeed, one might almost wonder whether their very brightness was not caused by the dews of unshed tears. She was pale. There was no color in her face at all, save that of her red lips.

So pale and ethereal she seemed to her rapturous lover that, for a moment, he was filled with an eerie fear—was she mortal, or one of those fragile spirits who abide on the earth for a season only? Then, all in a moment, her eyes meeting those of her lover, the sadness of the night passed from her like a shadow which is vanquished by the sunlight. An instant later she was again pale.

“Speak to me at once,” implored the lover, “for but a moment since I thought you a spirit. Dearest one, assure me that my passion is not in vain, and that my eyes deceive me when they fancy that yours are sad.”

Her voice faltered and trembled at first. Gradually she steadied it.

“My honorable eyes,” she said, “are not always faithful mirrors of my heart. Yes, indeed, you are deceived, my lord. Look again. Surely you will see that—that they do smile.”

“Yes,” he replied, regarding her somewhat wistfully, “it is true. They do smile, and yet—” He hesitated. “You do not appear happy, Fuji-wara.”

A strange little laugh escaped her lips. But she made no reply. She had turned her eyes from his, staring out before her. As the trouble deepened in the lover’s eyes, he reached up, touching very gently the small white hand on the sill. The light touch of his hand startled her. Before he could speak she had recovered herself, leaning farther over to him. Her words sounded strangely harsh.

“My lord, do let us resume our conversation concerning this brave cause to which you adhere.”

He flushed warmly.

“It seems incongruous,” he replied, after a moment, “that a tender maiden should be interested in political conflicts.”

“That is very unkind, my lord. You do not credit me, then, with any other quality, apparently, than that of pale softness. Indeed, my vanity has saved me from the knowledge that the gods have been most unkind.”

“Nay, do not speak so,” he tenderly chid her. Of late he had chafed not a little at her persistent waiving aside of all tenderer subjects to discuss those of larger import to men alone.

“Well, then,” she persisted, “say that I am capricious, whimsical, what you will. But do, pray, humor me, and if I find it necessary”—she stammered over her words—“if I find it interesting to discuss such matters, pray allow me to do so.”

“Do so, then, at once, dear one! I am all ears to listen and all tongue to reply.”

“Pray tell me, then, are you truly an Imperialist at heart, or merely so in name because you are a Mori?”

“Pray tell me where my insignificant sympathies should lie, and there I swear to you shall they be.”

She protested that he but begged her question. Did he, then, consider, because she was but a weak maiden, that her interest in such a matter must needs be a slight thing? Was she not herself a daughter of a samurai, and did not the flame, the fire of patriotism glow unceasingly in her breast also?

“Dear Wistaria,” entreated the lover, “I pray you do not disturb your gentle bosom with these questions which are meant for soldiers, not for maidens.”

“Nay, then,” she replied, and there were tears in her voice now, “why will you persist so? You are quite wrong, too. Let me repeat: I am the daughter of a family whose women have had their honorable share in the affairs of the nation.”

“True, but your house has stood always on one side only. They have never deigned even to hear the argument, the pious, patriotic cry of the other side.”

“My house! Well, my lord, and am I a house?”

He kissed the slender hand on the window ledge. It reached just to his lips.

“Nay, I swear you are a goddess. It could not be possible that one so good and fair would favor an evil cause.”

“Evil? Ah, then, my lord, is the cause of my house an evil one?”

He looked up into her eyes earnestly.

“I should be a traitor, my lady, did I take advantage of the friendly hospitality your house has offered me to repay it by sowing seeds of mischief.”

“But if the seeds were not mischievous, my lord? If they were worthy and good?”

He dropped her hand abruptly, and paced for a time up and down the small grass-grown walk beneath her window.

In the shadow of the room behind the Lady Wistaria another face appeared for the space of a moment only. Long, lean, cadaverous it was, wherein fierce eyes burned like living coals. With a shudder, Wistaria clutched her hand over her heart. Back to her casement came the lover.

“My sweetest girl, do not let us discuss so melancholy a subject.”

Impatient to speak with her of other matters nearer his heart, the lover let full, passionate appeal shine in his eyes. Wistaria’s paleness deepened, if that were possible. Her eyes grew humid with repressed sadness. Her voice trembled and broke in spite of her words.

“Melancholy, my lord? Nay, you would treat me as a child. You would turn my heart from a lofty subject with the graceless remark that it is too melancholy for me.”

“Lady, I would turn your heart to the holiest of all subjects on earth.”

“Ah, what is that, dear Keiki—No, no, no! Pray excuse my honorable rudeness. Do, pray, my lord, rather perceive my intense curiosity in the matter of which we have spoken. Then when you have enlightened me, speak whatever you will, my lord. I will listen.”

“And concerning what am I to enlighten you?”

“The question which cuts our country into two bitter factions, each defiant and warlike towards the other.”

Into the lover’s face there crept vague, baffled perplexity mirroring the thought beyond. Coquetry, or desire for political truth—which swayed his mistress? If the former, there was no combating it; if the latter, then—why then he would speak her true. He said:

“Will you tell me, then, whom you have been taught to regard as the ruler of Japan?”

“Why, our good Shogun Iyesada,” she returned, promptly.

“Yet he is not so regarded by every one in Japan.”

“Why is that?”

“Because there are many who would see our rightful sovereign, our divine Emperor, upon the throne.”

“But, my lord, his Imperial Majesty is, indeed, already upon the throne, is he not?”

“Only nominally. I fear, my lady, that you have not read the Dai Nihon Shi of the Prince of Mori?”

“No, but I am much interested in it.”

“The history,” continued the young man, with vehement bitterness, “was purged repeatedly by the Yedo censor of the Shogun. It dared to speak the truth to the people. I do assure you it was not destroyed, however, before it had done its work well.”

“How? Pray do tell me all about it.”

“Have you never heard that pious—fanatical, if you will—cry, a barely half-muffled war-cry now, ‘Daigi Heibunor!’” [the King and the subject].

His voice rose with a growing passion. Into his eyes leaped the gleam of the patriot.

An exclamation escaped the lips of the young girl.

“Oh, my lord, do not speak so loudly. I would feign warn you. I—I—”

She broke off in her agitation. But her apparent fear for him only filled her lover with a great joy. His voice softened.

“Fuji-wara, will you suffer yourself to listen hereafter to a confessed traitor?”

“Dear lord, traitor to the wrong?”

“Oh, dearest girl, can it actually be that you sympathize with our noble cause?”

“I—I—Tell me, do, pray tell me, with whom does the young Prince of Mori sympathize?”

“Oh, the rascal is a descendant of the Mori of whom I spoke just now.”

“And an adherent to his views?”

“Possibly.”

“You do not know for a fact,” she urged, tremulously, “just to what party the Prince does adhere?”

“My lady,” replied the lover, with some constraint, “the Prince has his pride of caste. He is also not without the inherited germs of patriotism in his soul.”

“And still they do say that he is as silly as a butterfly, and so given to frivolity that his head can hold no serious thought.”

“I do assure you,” replied the other, flushing warmly, “that our prince is not all he may seem.”

“My lord, I have conceived the most overwhelming interest in this young Prince Mori.”

“Indeed!” The young man started back in humorous dismay. The girl smiled now, a little, dreary smile.

“Be assured, my lord, that the interest is not of a sentimental nature. But it would seem that the young Prince was surely born for a great purpose.”

“Yes?” inquired the other, eagerly.

“And that is, to follow in the steps of his honorable ancestor.”

“Oh, dearest girl, you fill my soul with joy! I am ready to swear that your sweet heart beats for the right—the noble cause to which—”

“The Prince Mori is sworn?” she interrupted, quickly.

“Ay! and all the patriotic sons of Japan!”

“And what do these sons of Japan propose to do? What are the plans of the Prince Mori?”

“My lady!”

“Pray, why do you start so, Keiki-sama?”

“You ask a weighty question with the same lightness you would bestow if inquiring about the weather!”

“Then the tones of my voice do me injustice.”

“Wistaria, I swear I will not speak another word on this subject. No—not even to you.”

“But—”

“No, no. I swear I will not.”

“My lord—”

“Did I arise an hour before the sun, think you, to preach politics to my mistress?”

“You recall the hour to me now. It seems I must bid you farewell. My maid even now is tapping on my door. Do, pray then, depart.”

The young man appeared cut to the heart at the parting. He sighed so deeply that Wistaria could not bear to gaze upon him, and, conscious of the impatient presence within, she drew her windows back hastily and shut out the sight of her lover from her. Then she faced her father within.

“You have heard all, honored parent?”

“Everything.”

“You are a witness of my continued efforts. I fear we have learned all there is to know.”

“Your opinion was not asked,” replied the father, coldly. “Your services are all I require. You will resume them to-morrow.”

The Lady Wistaria prostrated herself before her parent with the utmost humility.

“I am prepared to obey your august will in all things,” she murmured, in the most filial and submissive of voices.