her and he
always seemed like a big brother to her. Once a boy had called her
a half-breed and Billy promptly knocked him down and sat on his
head while he manipulated a shingle.

Another time when they were quite small, the desire of her heart
was to ride on the tricycle of a rich little boy who lived across
the street. But the pampered youth jeered at her pleadings and
exultingly rode up and down before her. Billy saw and bided his
time till the small Croesus was alone. He nabbed him, chucked him
in a chicken-coop and stood guard for an hour while Sada rode
gloriously.

Through college they were comrades and rivals. Billy had to work
his way, for he was the poor son of an invalid mother. From
college he had gone straight to a firm of rich manufacturers and
was now one of the big buyers.

He had pleaded with her not to come to Japan. He loved her. He
wanted her. When she had persisted, he was furious and they had
quarreled. But she had thought she was right, then; she did not
know how dear Billy was, how big and splendid. She had written to
him but seldom, nothing of her disappointment. Maybe he had
married. She could not write now. It would be too much like
begging, when she was at bay, for the love she had refused when all
was well. No, she _could not_ tell him.

We talked long and earnestly in that old garden, and the wind that
sifted through the pine-needles and the waxy leaves was as gentle
as if the spirit of Susan West had come to watch and to bless.

I gained a half promise from her that she would write to Billy at
once, but I didn't stop there.

Unsuspected by Sada I learned his full address, and Mate, I wrote a
letter to the auburn-haired lover in Nebraska, in which I painted a
picture that is going to cause something to happen, else I am
mistaken in my estimate of the spirit of the West in general and
William Weston Milton in particular.

I told him if he loved the girl to come as fast as steam would
bring him; that I would help him at the risk of anything, though I
have no idea how. I have just returned from a solitary promenade
to the post-office through the dark and lonely streets, so that
letter will catch to-morrow's American mail.

Sada told me that for some reason she had never mentioned Billy's
name to Uncle. Now isn't that a full hand nestling up my
half-sleeve? Uncle thinks the way clear as an empty race-track,
and all he has to do is to saunter down the home stretch a