IV

It was in the period of the fourth moon that Kimiko was carried

away to the home prepared for her,--a place in which to forget

all the unpleasant realities of life,--a sort of fairy-palace lost

in the charmed repose of great shadowy silent high-walled

gardens. Therein she might have felt as one reborn, by reason of

good deeds, into the realm of Horai. But the spring passed, and

the summer came,--and Kimiko remained simply Kimiko. Three times

she had contrived, for reasons unspoken, to put off the

wedding-day.

In the period of the eighth moon, Kimiko ceased to be playful,

and told her reasons very gently but very firmly:--"It is time

that I should say what I have long delayed saying. For the sake

of the mother who gave me life, and for the sake of my little

sister, I have lived in hell. All that is past; but the scorch of

the fire is upon me, and there is no power that can take it away.

It is not for such as I to enter into an honored family,--nor to

bear you a son,--nor to build up your house.... Suffer me to

speak; for in the knowing of wrong I am very, very much wiser

than you.... Never shall I be your wife to become your shame. I

am your companion only, your play-fellow, your guest of an hour,

--and this not for any gifts. When I shall be no longer with you

nay! certainly that day must come!--you will have clearer sight.

I shall still be dear to you, but not in the same way as

now--which is foolishness. You will remember these words out of

my heart. Some true sweet lady will be chosen for you, to become

the mother of your children. I shall see them; but the place of a

wife I shall never take, and the joy of a mother I must never

know. I am only your folly, my beloved,--an illusion, a dream, a

shadow flitting across your life. Somewhat more in later time I

may become, but a wife to you never, neither in this existence

nor in the next. Ask me again-and I go."

In the period of the tenth moon, and without any reason

imaginable, Kimiko disappeared,--vanished,--utterly ceased to

exist.

V

Nobody knew when or how or whither she had gone. Even in the

neighborhood of the home she had left, none had seen her pass. At

first it seemed that she must soon return. Of all her beautiful

and precious things-her robes, her ornaments, her presents: a

fortune in themselves--she had taken nothing. But weeks passed

without word or sign; and it was feared that something terrible

had befallen her. Rivers were dragged, and wells were searched.

Inquiries were made by telegraph and by letter. Trusted servants

were sent to look for her. Rewards were offered for any

news--especially a reward to Kimika, who was really attached to

the girl, and would have been only too happy to find her without

any reward at all. But the mystery remained a mystery.

Application to the authorities would have been useless: the

fugitive had done no wrong, broken no law; and the vast machinery

of the imperial police-system was not to be set in motion by the

passionate whim of a boy. Months grew into years; but neither

Kimika, nor the little sister in Kyoto, nor any one of the

thousands who had known and admired the beautiful dancer, ever

saw Kimiko again.

But what she had foretold came true;--for time dries all tears

and quiets all longing; and even in Japan one does not really try

to die twice for the same despair. The lover of Kimiko became

wiser; and there was found for him a very sweet person for wife,

who gave him a son. And other years passed; and there was

happiness in the fairy-home where Kimiko had once been.

There came to that home one morning, as if seeking alms, a

traveling nun; and the child, hearing her Buddhist cry of

"_Ha--i! ha--i!_" ran to the gate. And presently a house-servant,

bringing out the customary gift of rice, wondered to see the nun

caressing the child, and whispering to him. Then the little one

cried to the servant, "Let me give!"--and the nun pleaded from

under the veiling shadow of her great straw hat: "Honorably allow

the child to give me." So the boy put the rice into the

mendicant's bowl. Then she thanked him, and asked:--"Now will

you say again for me the little word which I prayed you to tell

your honored father?" And the child lisped:--"_Father, one whom

you will never see again in this world, says that her heart is

glad because she has seen your son_."

The nun laughed softly, and caressed him again, and passed away

swiftly; and the servant wondered more than ever, while the child

ran to tell his father the words of the mendicant.

But the father's eyes dimmed as he heard the words, and he wept

over his boy. For he, and only he, knew who had been at the gate,

--and the sacrificial meaning of all that had been hidden.

Now he thinks much, but tells his thought to no one.

He knows that the space between sun and sun is less than the

space between himself and the woman who loved him.

He knows it were vain to ask in what remote city, in what

fantastic riddle of narrow nameless streets, in what obscure

little temple known only to the poorest poor, she waits for the

darkness before the Dawn of the Immeasurable Light,--when the

Face of the Teacher will smile upon her,--when the Voice of the

Teacher will say to her, in tones of sweetness deeper than ever

came from human lover's lips:--"_O my daughter in the Law, thou

hast practiced the perfect way; thou hast believed and understood

the highest truth;--therefore come I now to meet and to welcome

thee!_"