ht I'd start with this."

"But," I reminded her, "it is not the custom in this country for young
girls to smoke."

"Oh, isn't it?"--indifferently--"it doesn't matter. Had to begin on
something or--die."

The spasm of pain which swept the girl's face stirred within me a memory
long forgotten.

Once, when my own starved youth had wearied and clamored anew for an
outlet, I had determined on a reckless adventure. From corn-shucks and
dried grass I made a cigar which I tried to smoke. It gave me the most
miserable penitent hour I have ever known. The picture of the child of
long ago hiding in the corn crib until recovery was possible caused me
now to shake with laughter.

The fire in Zura's eyes began to burn. "Think it's funny? I don't. Have
one." She flung a package of cigarettes in my lap.

Ignoring the impertinence of her speech and act I hastened to explain
the cause of my amusement. I told her of my desolate childhood, of the
quiet village in which my uneventful girlhood was passed, where the
most exciting thing that ever happened was a funeral about once in four
years.

When I finished she showed the first signs of friendliness as she
exclaimed, "Heavens! Didn't you have any 'movies,' any chums, any boys
to treat you now and then to a sundae?"

Kishimoto San certainly stated a fact. Her English was strange. I was
sure the words were not in my dictionary. But I would not appear stupid
before this child who had no business to know more than I did. So I
looked a little stern and said that my Sundays never seemed a treat;
they were no different from week-days. If the other things she talked
about were in a circus, I had never been to one to hear them.

At this such a peal of laughter went up from the girl as I dare say at
no time had ever played about the ancient beams. The maid, just entering
with hot tea, stood as if stunned. The old grandmother sat like a statue
of age with hand uplifted, protesting against any expression of youth
and its joys.

Mrs. Wingate pushed aside the paper doors, gently chiding, "Zura, yo'
naughty ve'y bad."

But the reproof was as meaningless as the babbling of a baby. Neither
disapproval nor black looks availed; unchecked the merriment went on
until exhausted by its own violence. I knew she was laughing at me, but
what mattered? To her I was a comical old figure in a strange museum. To
me she stood for all I had lost of girlhood rights and I wanted her for
my friend. Her laught