his wife's death, and, hoping to comfort
him, White Aster paid him all manner of filial attentions. She could
not, however, restore happiness or peace to the bereaved man, who,
besides mourning his wife, keenly regretted the absence of his son
Akitoshi, whom he had driven from home in anger when the youth proved
wild and overbearing.

During this artless narrative the recluse had exhibited signs of deep
emotion, and, when White Aster mentioned the name of her brother, he
clasped his hands over his face as if to conceal its expression. After
listening to her tale in silence, he kindly bade White Aster tarry
there until sunrise, assuring her it would not be safe for her to
wander in the mountain by night. Little White Aster, therefore slept
at Buddha's feet, shivering with cold, for her garments were far too
thin to protect her from the keen mountain air. As she slept she
dreamt of her father, whose wraith appeared to her, explaining that a
false step had hurled him down into a ravine, whence he has vainly
been trying to escape for three days past!

The second canto opens with a description of a beautiful red dawn, and
of the gradual awakening of the birds, whose songs finally rouse the
little maiden, who again sets off on her quest.

Now the red dawn had tipped the mountain-tops,
And birds, awaking, peered from out their nests,
To greet the day with strains of matin joy;
The while, the moon's pale sickle, silver white,
Fading away, sunk in the western sky.
Clear was the air and cloudless, save the mists
That rolled in waves upon the mountain-tops.
Or crept along the gullies.

Skirting the trunks of mighty trees, stealing beneath whispering
pines, White Aster threads different parts of the solitude, where she
encounters deer and other timid game, seeking some trace of her
father. She is so intent on this quest that she does not mark two dark
forms which gradually creep nearer to her. These are robbers, who
finally pounce upon White Aster and drag her into their rocky den,
little heeding her tears or prayers; and, although the maiden cries
for help, echo alone reiterates her desperate calls.

The brigands' lair is beneath an overhanging cliff, where they have
erected a miserable booth, whose broken thatch has to be supplemented
by the dense foliage of the ginkgo tree overshadowing it. In front of
this hut runs a brawling stream, while the rocks all around are hung
with heavy curtains of ivy, which