n her tongue in framing an English sentence.
Gravely and with effort she wrote:

"I give you all my house. Your lovely friend, Yuki."

But she shook her head over this and tried again:

"You have the welcome of my heart. Yuki."

This, too, fell short of her ideal, so she decided to send simply two
words of which she was quite sure:

"Please come."

The days that followed were crowded with busy preparation. The
difficulty of providing the ease and comfort that the presence of so
honorable a guest demanded taxed to the utmost Yuki San's resourceful
nature. Gaily she set her wits and fingers to work--placing a heavy
brass _hibachi_ over a black scorch in the matting, fitting new
rice-paper into the small wooden squares of the _shoji_, and hanging
_kakemono_ over the ugly holes made by the missing plaster in the
wall.

From one part of the house to another she flitted, laughing and
working, while the old garden echoed her happiness and overflowed with
blossom and song.

On the day of Merrit's expected arrival, when the last flower had been
put in the vases, and the last speck of dust flecked from the matting,
Yuki San's keen eyes detected a torn place in the paper door which
separated the guest-chamber from the narrow hall.

A puzzled little frown drew her black brows together, but it soon fled
before her smile.

"Ah!" she cried, "idea come quickly! I write picture of bamboo on
teared place."

With paint and brush she fell to work, and beneath her skilful fingers
the ugly tear disappeared in a forest of slender _take_ which
stretched away to the foot of a snow-capped mountain.

With a last touch she sank back on her heels and viewed her work with
deep satisfaction. "All finished," she said, opening wide her arms;
"no more to do now but wait for that time 'Merican sensei call
jollyful!"

A laugh behind her made her turn her head quickly, and there in the
doorway stood a tall foreigner, with outstretched hand of welcome.

Hand-shaking was an unknown art with Yuki San, so after one startled
upward glance she touched her head to the floor in gracious courtesy.

All her gay spirits and freedom of speech vanished, and she was
instantly enveloped in a mist of shyness and reserve that Merrit's
direct look did not serve to lessen.

With lowered eyes, she ushered him into the larger living-room, and
bade him be seated and accept all the hospitality her father's poor
house could give.

After a long and tiresome