s father and his
grandfather had done so before him. The guide of his meditations was
the yellow book, the _Rongo_ (Maxims) of Confucius, that Bible of the
Far East which has moulded oriental morality to the shape of the Three
Obediences, the obedience of the child to his parents, of the wife to
her husband, and of the servant to his lord.

Mr. Fujinami sat on the sill of his study, and meditated. Around him
was the stillness of early morning. From the house could be heard the
swish of the maids' brooms brushing the _tatami_, and the flip-flap
of their paper flickers, like horses' tails, with which they dislodged
the dust from the walls and cornices.

A big black crow had been perched on one of the cherry-trees in the
garden. He rose with a shaking of branches and a flapping of broad
black wings. He crossed the lake, croaking as he flew with a note
more harsh, rasping and cynical than the consequential caw of English
rooks. His was a malevolent presence "from the night's Plutonian
shore," the symbol of something unclean and sinister lurking behind
this dainty beauty and this elaboration of cleanliness.

Mr. Fujinami's meditations were deep and grave. Soon he put down the
book. The spectacles glided along his nose. His chest rose and fell
quickly under the weight of his resting chin. To the ignorant observer
Mr. Fujinami would have appeared to be asleep.

However, when his wife appeared about an hour and a half afterwards,
bringing her lord's breakfast on another red lacquer table she
besought him kindly to condescend to eat, and added that he must
be very tired after so much study. To this Mr. Fujinami replied by
passing his hand over his forehead and saying, "_D[=o]m[=o]! So des' ne!_
(Indeed, it is so!) I have tired myself with toil."

This little farce repeated itself every morning. All the household
knew that the master's hour of meditation was merely an excuse for
an after-sleep. But it was a tradition in the family that the master
should study thus; and Mr. Fujinami's grandfather had been a great
scholar in his generation. To maintain the tradition Mr. Fujinami had
hired a starveling journalist to write a series of random essays of
a sentimental nature, which he had published under his own name, with
the title, _Fallen Cherry-Blossoms_.

Such is the hold of humbug in Japan that nobody in the whole
household, including the students who respected nothing, ever allowed
themselves the relief of smiling at the s