Good People burst into shouts of laughter
and broke off to play for a while.

"But what will your God say?" asked the Jesuit, scandalised at the
levity.

"Oh! he knows everything. He knows that we forget, and can't attend, and
do it all wrong, but He is very wise and very strong," was the reply.

"Well, that doesn't excuse you."

"Of course it does. He just lies back and laughs," said the Good People
of Somewhere Else, and fell to pelting each other with blossoms.

I forget what is the precise bearing of this anecdote. But to return to
the temple. Hidden away behind a mass of variegated gorgeousness was a
row of very familiar figures with gold crowns on their heads. One does
not expect to meet Krishna the Butter Thief and Kali the husband beater
so far east as Japan.

"What are these?"

"They are other gods," said a young priest, who giggled deprecatingly at
his own creed every time he was questioned about it. "They are very old.
They came from India in the past. I think they are Indian gods, but I do
not know why they are here."

I hate a man who is ashamed of his faith. There was a story connected
with those gods, and the priest would not tell it to me. So I sniffed at
him scornfully, and went my way. It led me from the temple straight into
the monastery, which was all made of delicate screens, polished floors,
and brown wood ceilings. Except for my tread on the boards there was no
sound in the place till I heard some one breathing heavily behind a
screen. The priest slid back what had appeared to me a dead wall, and we
found a very old priest half-asleep over his charcoal handwarmer. This
was the picture. The priest in olive-green, his bald head, pure silver,
bowed down before a sliding screen of white oiled paper which let in
dull silver light. To his right a battered black lacquer stand
containing the Indian ink and brushes with which he feigned to work. To
the right of these, again, a pale yellow bamboo table holding a vase of
olive-green crackle, and a sprig of almost black pine. There were no
blossoms in this place. The priest was too old. Behind the sombre
picture stood a gorgeous little Buddhist shrine,--gold and vermilion.

"He makes a fresh picture for the little screen here every day," said
the young priest, pointing first to his senior, and then to a blank
little tablet on the wall. The old man laughed pitifully, rubbed his
head, and handed me his picture for the day. It represented a flood
ove