"There were still four of us,--grandmother, brother, myself, and my
little sister. My brother was nineteen years old. He had finished his
apprenticeship just before father died: we thought that was like the
pity of the gods for us. He had become the head of the house. He was
very skillful in his business, and had many friends: therefore he could
maintain us. He made thirteen yen the first month;--that is very good
for a seal-cutter. One evening he came home sick: he said that his head
hurt him. Mother had then been dead forty-seven days. That evening he
could not eat. Next morning he was not able to get up;--he had a very
hot fever: we nursed him as well as we could, and sat up at night to
watch by him; but he did not get better. On the morning of the third
day of his sickness we became frightened--because he began to talk to
mother. It was the forty-ninth day after mother's death,--the day the
Soul leaves the house;--and brother spoke as if mother was calling
him:--'Yes, mother, yes!--in a little while I shall come!' Then he told
us that mother was pulling him by the sleeve. He would point with his
hand and call to us:-'There she is!--there!--do you not see her? 'We
would tell him that we could not see anything. Then he would say, 'Ah!
you did not look quick enough: she is hiding now;--she has gone down
under the floor-mats.' All the morning he talked like that. At last
grandmother stood up, and stamped her foot on the floor, and reproached
mother,--speaking very loud. 'Taka!' she said, 'Taka, what you do is
very wrong. When you were alive we all loved you. None of us ever spoke
unkind words to you. Why do you now want to take the boy? You know
that he is the only pillar of our house. You know that if you take him
there will not be any one to care for the ancestors. You know that if
you take him, you will destroy the family name! O Taka, it is cruel!
it is shameful! it is wicked!' Grandmother was so angry that all her
body trembled. Then she sat down and cried; and I and my little sister
cried. But our brother said that mother was still pulling him by the
sleeve. When the sun went down, he died.
"Grandmother wept, and stroked us, and sang a little song that she
made herself. I can remember it still:--
_Oy a no nai ko to_
_Hamabé no chidori:_
_Higuré-higuré ni_
_Sodé shiboru._[2]
"So the third grave was made,--but it was not a _ningyō-no-haka_;--and
that was the end of our house. We lived with kindred until winter,
when grandmother died. She died in the night,--when, nobody knew: in
the morning she seemed to be sleeping, but she was dead. Then I and my
little sister were separated. My sister was adopted by a _tatamiya,_ a
mat-maker,--one of father's friends. She is kindly treated: she even
goes to school!"
"_Aa fushigi na koto da!--aa komatta ne?"_ murmured Manyemon. Then
there was a moment or two of sympathetic silence. Iné prostrated
herself in thanks, and rose to depart. As she slipped her feet under
the thongs of her sandals, I moved toward the spot where she had been
sitting, to ask the old man a question. She perceived my intention, and
immediately made an indescribable sign to Manyemon, who responded by
checking me just as I was going to sit down beside him.
"She wishes," he said, "that the master will honorably strike the
matting first."
"But why?" I asked in surprise,---noticing only that under my unshod
feet, the spot where the child had been kneeling felt comfortably warm.