d
stricken. Asako had very little in common with her father; for his
character had been moulded or warped by two powerful agencies, his
intellect and his disease; and it was well for his daughter that she
had escaped this dire inheritance. But never before had she seen her
mother's face. Sometimes she had wondered who and what her mother had
been; what she had thought of as her baby grew within her; and with
what regrets she had exchanged her life for her child's. More often
she had considered herself as a being without a mother, a fairy's
child, brought into this world on a sunbeam or born from a flower.

Now she saw the face which had reflected pain and death for her. It
was impassive, doll-like and very young, pure oval in outline,
but lacking in expression. The smallness of the mouth was the most
characteristic feature, but it was not alive with smiles like her
daughter's. It was pinched and constrained, with the lower lips drawn
in.

The photograph was clearly a wedding souvenir. She wore the black
kimono of a bride, and the multiple skirts. A kind of little
pocket-book with silver charms dangling from it, an ancient marriage
symbol, was thrust into the opening at her breast. Her head was
covered with a curious white cap like the "luggage" of Christmas
crackers. She was seated rigidly at the edge of her uncomfortable
chair; and her personality seemed to be overpowered by the solemnity
of the occasion.

"Did she love him," her daughter wondered, "as I love Geoffrey?"

Through Sadako's interpretation Mrs. Fujinami explained that Asako's
mother's name had been Yamagata Haruko (Spring child). Her father had
been a _samurai_ in the old two-sworded days. The photograph was not
very like her. It was too serious.

"Like you," said the elder woman, "she was always laughing and happy.
My husband's father used to call her the _Semi_ (the cicada), because
she was always singing her little song. She was chosen for your father
because he was so sad and wrathful. They thought that she would
make him more gentle. But she died; and then he became more sad than
before."

Asako was crying very gently. She felt the touch of her cousin's hand
on her arm. The intellectual Miss Sadako also was weeping, the tears
furrowing her whitened complexion. The Japanese are a very emotional
race. The women love tears; and even the men are not averse from this
very natural expression of feeling, which our Anglo-Saxon schooling
has condemned