y grave without an heir,--even
an adopted heir,--for there is no disciple worthy to succeed!"

"Dear friend, believe that I would not willingly add to a grief like
this. I assure you----" Ando was beginning, when his words were cut
short by the entrance of Ume-ko. She bore a tray with cups, a tiny
steaming tea-pot, and a dish heaped with cakes in the forms and tints
of morning-glories. This offering she placed near Uchida; and then,
retiring a few steps, bowed to the floor, drawing her breath inaudibly
as a token of welcome and respect. Being merely a woman, old Kano did
not think of presenting her. She left the room noiselessly as she had
come. Ando watched every movement with admiration and a certain
weighing of possibilities in his shrewd face. He nodded as if to
himself, and leaned toward Kano.

"Was that not Kano Ume-ko, your daughter?"

"Yes," said the old man, gruffly; "but she is not a son."

"Fortunately for the eyes of men she is not," smiled Ando. "That is
the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and I have seen many. She
welcomed me at the gate."

Kano, engaged in pouring tea, made no reply.

"Also, if current speech be true, she has great talent," persisted the
visitor. "One can see genius burning like a soft light behind her
face. I hear everywhere of her beauty and her fame."

"Oh, she does well,--even remarkably well for a woman," admitted Kano.
"But, as I said before, she is a woman, and nothing alters that. I
tell you, Ando!" he cried, in a small new gust of irritation,
"sometimes I have wished that she had been left utterly untouched by
art. She paints well now, because my influence is never lifted. She
knows nothing else. I have allowed no lover to approach. Yet, some
day love will find her, as one finds a blossoming plum tree in the
night. In every rock and tree she paints I can see the hint of that
coming lover; in her flowers, exquisitely drawn, nestle the faces of
her children. She knows it not, but I know,--I know! She thinks she
cares only for her father and her art. When I die she will marry, and
then how many pictures will she paint? Bah!"

"Poor child!" murmured Ando, under his breath.

"Poor child," mocked the artist, whose quick ears had caught the
whisper. "Poor Nippon, rather, and poor old Kano, who has no better
heir than this frail girl. Oh, Ando, I have clamored to the gods! I
have made pilgrimages and given gifts,--but there is no one to inherit