he small details of
eating and resting.

My craving for things to happen was being fed as fast as a rapid-firing
gun in full action. I found waiting very irksome but there was a cooking
class, a mother's meeting, two sets of composition papers to be
corrected and various household duties that stubbornly refused to adjust
themselves to my limited time.

At last, however, I was free to go and delayed not a minute in starting
on my visit.

* * * * *

Kishimoto's home was lower down in the city than mine and very near the
sea. The house was ancient and honorable. Its air of antiquity was
undisturbed by the great changes which had swept the land in the ages it
had stood. The masters had changed from father to son, but the house was
as it had been in the beginning, and with it lived unbroken and
unshifting, the traditions and beliefs of its founders.

It was only a matter of a few minutes after passing the lodge gates
until I was ushered into the general living-room and the center of the
family life.

The master being absent, the ceremony of welcoming to his house a
strange guest was performed by his wife.

One could see at a glance that she belonged to the old order of things
when the seed of a woman's soul seldom had a chance to sprout. She
performed her duties with the precision of a clock, with the soft alarm
wound to strike at a certain hour, then to be set aside to tick
unobtrusively on till needed again.

The seat of honor in a Japanese home is a small alcove designated as
"the Tokonoma." In this ancient house simple decorations of a priceless
scroll and a flowering plum graced the recess. Before it on a cushion of
rich brocade I was asked to be seated.

Etiquette demanded that I hesitate and apologize for my unworthiness as
I bowed low and long.

Custom insisted that my hostess urge my acceptance as she abased herself
by touching her forehead to her hands folded upon the floor.

Of course it ended by my occupying the cushion, and I was glad for the
interruption of tea and cake.

[Illustration: Zura Wingate advanced to my lowly seat on the floor, and
listlessly put out one hand to greet me]

Then equal in length and formality followed the ceremony of being
introduced to Kishimoto San's mother and widowed daughter, Mrs. Wingate.
The mother, old and withered, was made strong by her power as
mother-in-law and her faith in her country and her gods. The daughter
was weak and