sky and sea breathed beauty. The evening song of the birds was
of love. The spirit of the fading day whispered peace, but unheeding he
sat in troubled silence. Then from the street far below came the shout
of a boy at play. It was a voice full of the gladness of youth. In it
was a challenge of daring and courage. Loudly he called to his troop of
play soldiers to charge splendidly, to fight with the glorious _Yamato
Damashi_ (spirit of Japan).

Kishimoto San heard and with a quick movement raised his head as though
he had felt a blow. "Ah," he murmured to himself, "if it had only been a
boy!"

There was the secret wound that was ever sore and bleeding. There was no
son to perpetuate the name. His most vital hope was dead, his greatest
desire crushed, and by a creature out of the West, who not only stole
his daughter but fathered this girl whom no true Japanese would want as
a wife. To a man of Kishimoto San's traditions the hurt was deep and
cruel.

I well understood his sorrow and disappointment. Pity put all my
annoyance to flight. I promised to go to his house and see if I could
help in any way. I did not tell him that I was about as familiar with
young girls from my home land as I was with young eagles, for the
undaunted spirit of that child had aroused all my love of adventure;
and I wanted to see her. Then, too, I was haunted by the picture of a
lonely girl in a strange land, crying out in the night for her dead
father.

I was trembling with new emotion that evening when I brought my invalid
in from the garden, and tucked her into bed.

Kishimoto San had not only offered me a tremendous experience, but all
unwittingly he made it easily possible for me to defy the tradition of
his picture language, and risk Jane Gray as a permanent fireside
companion.

III

ZURA

Just below "The House of the Misty Star," in an old temple, a priest
played a merry tattoo on a mighty gong early every morning. First one
stroke and a pause, then two strokes and a pause, followed by so many
strokes without pause that the sounds merged into one deep mellow tone
reaching from temple to distant hills. It was, so to speak, the rising
bell for the deities in that district and announced to them the
beginning of their day of business.

In years gone by the echo of the music had stirred me only to a drowsy
thankfulness that I was no goddess, happy as I turned for a longer
sleep. The morning after Kishimoto San's visit, long b