CHAPTER XII.

THE MOTOR MAIDS IN FAIR JAPAN

BY KATHERINE STOKES

AUTHOR OF "THE MOTOR MAIDS' SCHOOL DAYS," "THE MOTOR MAIDS BY PALM AND

PINE," "THE MOTOR MAIDS ACROSS THE CONTINENT," "THE MOTOR MAIDS BY ROSE,

SHAMROCK AND THISTLE" ETC.

1913

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. OFF FOR JAPAN

II. TEA IN THE GARDEN

III. SHOPPING IN JINRIKSHAS

IV. THE GARDEN IN THE RAIN

V. IN THE LIBRARY

VI. CHERRY BLOSSOMS

VII. A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR

VIII. THE COMPASSIONATE GOD, JIZU

IX. A BIRTHDAY PARTY

X. IN THE DARK

XI. THE COMET DISGUISED

XII. A THEATER PARTY

XIII. A FALLING OUT

XIV. A LETTER THAT CAME, THOUGH IT WAS NEVER SENT

XV. THE ANCIENT CITY OF SLEEP

XVI. THE STORM KING

XVII. A VISIT OF CEREMONY

XVIII. THE MAGNET AND THE SILVER CHURN

XIX. FATHER AND DAUGHTER

XX. THE TYPHOON

XXI. CONUNDRUMS AND ANSWERS

XXII. GOOD BYE, SUMMER

CHAPTER I.

OFF FOR JAPAN.

"The Motor Maids are off again," announced the West Haven Courier one

morning, as if every citizen in the gray old town on the coast was not

already well aware of it.

The four famous travelers and their chaperone, Miss Helen Campbell, were

always off somewhere in the red motor car. If they were not making a

voyage to England with the "Comet" stored in the hold of the ship for

immediate use on arrival, or taking perilous journeys across the American

continent in the faithful car, they were making excursions to Shell

Island or Seven League Island, or down the coast to the Sailors' Inn.

"Where is it to be this time, Nancy-Bell?" Captain Brown had asked his

daughter when she had broken the news to him that she must give up the

spring term at High School for something far more educational than mere

books. Perhaps the sea captain had intended to be stern when he asked

that question; but Nancy had her own peculiar methods of dispelling

sternness. A beaming anticipatory smile irradiated her face and

scattered parental disapproval even as the warm rays of the sun scatter

the morning mists.

"Japan!" she announced solemnly; and Captain Brown, who himself had made

voyages to Japan in his youth, pricked up his ears like an old hunting

dog when he hears the call of the pack. The name of High School faded

from his memory. It was the high seas he was thinking of--the great

desert of waters, the fresh salt breeze and the foam track left by the

little ship as it cut through the waves.

Without a word, he opened an old sea chest and drew out an atlas and

chart. Nancy blinked her eyes and smiled happily. She wondered if the

other girls were having as easy a time in breaking the amazing news to

their parents. Would Elinor Butler's father and mother consent to her

taking this long journey? Would Mrs. Price be willing to part with Mary

for many, many months while that young person journeyed to the other side

of the world? Captain Brown settled himself on a settee in front of the

crackling driftwood fire and Nancy seated herself beside him.

"You see, it's this way, father," she began, while Captain Brown turned

the leaves of the atlas with reverent fingers. "Billie Campbell's

father is a great engineer--"

"I've known him since he was a boy, child," interrupted the Captain.

"He's been invited by the Japanese government to go to Japan on some

consulting work, and he says he can't live without Billie another summer,

and Billie says she can't exist without us; so Mr. Campbell is to take a

house in Tokyo and we are all to go. Mr. Ignatius Donahue is going to

take us across to San Francisco in his private car. He says it's a very

small return for something we did for him once, and the end of the story

is that we are to sail for Japan in two weeks. Isn't that delightful,

Captain Brown?" she added, giving her father a tight hug and kissing him

on the end of his nose. "And aren't you overjoyed for your little

daughter to have such an opportunity to see the other side of the world?"

The Captain returned the kiss with good measure and resumed his study of

the maps and charts.

"You'll be a member of the Royal Geographical Society next," he observed.

"It's all happened because Billie Campbell has a mole on the sole of her

left foot and a Gypsy once told her that was the mark of the wanderer."

"But you and Elinor and Mary haven't any moles on the soles of your feet,

have you?"

"No, and neither has Miss Campbell."

"It's just as well," commented the Captain. "One is enough in the party

if it's going to take my little daughter away from her home most of the

time."

"Not most of the time, father," protested Nancy. "Only to Palm Beach and

across the Continent and to England--"

At this dangerous turn in the conversation, the

door was pushed open and Billie Campbell rushed

in, followed by Elinor Butler and Mary Price.

"It's all settled, Nancy-Bell," she cried. "Cousin Helen has consented

and the girls can go. Everything depends on you, now--"

"We are just studying the map," answered Nancy quickly, with a demure

smile.

Immediately the other girls seated themselves in a circle about the sea

captain and his charts, and Mrs. Brown, whose consent had already been

gained, presently appeared with a large platter of cookies.

So it was that the Motor Maids and Miss Campbell sailed through the

Golden Gate of San Francisco harbor one morning en route for the island

empire of Japan. On the long and sometimes tedious voyage we will not

dwell; nor shall we pause until we have left them on the piazza of their

new home in Tokyo, while seven Japanese servants are making profound

obeisances at the entrance and their attendant families, including three

grandmothers and five funny little children, bob and bow in the rear of

this formidable company.

Billie, who had scarcely left her father's side since the joyful moment

of their reunion, hung on his arm and smiled up into his face

inquiringly; while Miss Helen Campbell, his cousin, exclaimed:

"Dear me, Duncan; I thought we were to stay at a private house--not a

hotel."

Mr. Campbell, from his mysterious dwelling places in far distant lands,

had made so many things possible for the Motor Maids that Billie's three

friends had come to regard him as a kind of powerful spirit who had only

to will things to happen and they happened. At first they were rather shy

of the real Mr. Campbell, big and strong and splendid, the very image of

his daughter, Billie, if she had grown half a foot and cropped her light

brown hair closely all over her head.

"But, Cousin Helen, this is a private house," answered this human

presentment of the good spirit, a subdued humor lighting his gray eyes,

exactly as they had seen Billie's eyes kindle hundreds of times. "This is

your very own villa and this is your staff of domestics," he added,

indicating the regiment of servants who again bowed low like the chorus

in a comic opera. "You are to regard yourself as queen of this little

realm," he went on, pointing to the charming grounds and garden

surrounding the house, "and you are to be in absolute command. Nellie and

Nannie and Mollie and Billie are to be your maids of honor and I'll be

general factotum and protector. As for the staff," he continued in a

whisper, "their combined wages for one month amount to about one good

servant's hire at home."

The maid in the front of the cohort now stepped forth. She was much older

than the others; her hair was short and her blue cotton robe seemed

severe and plain in comparison to the gay colored kimonos of the younger

maids.

"This is our housekeeper and cook, O'Haru San," announced Mr. Campbell.

"I shall leave you in her charge now and keep an appointment."

So saying, Mr. Duncan Campbell kissed his daughter, smiled delightfully

on the company in general and hastened down the walk to the road, for the

villa was in the suburbs of Tokyo.

"Will honorable ladies enter humble, small house," said O'Haru making an

obeisance.

But before they could move an inch, the maids were at their feet deftly

unfastening their shoes.

"What in the world are they doing?" demanded Miss Campbell.

"One never wears shoes in the house, Cousin, don't you remember? Papa

told us so this morning," answered Billie slipping her feet into the

straw sandals provided.

"Perfect nonsense!" exclaimed Miss Campbell, shuffling into the hall in

her loose footgear. "I suppose I shall be expected to sit on the floor

and eat my meals on a door mat," she complained, "and that I positively

will not do. My old joints are far too stiff to be doubled up like a pair

of nut crackers."

The girls giggled and the four little Japanese maids giggled, too; not

that they understood a word of the language, but good humor is the

keynote of the Japanese character and strangers are treated with a

sympathetic courtesy and hospitality unequaled in any other country.

However, Miss Campbell's fears were immediately set at rest, for the

long, low-ceiled drawing-room of the villa was furnished in European

fashion with plenty of comfortable arm-chairs and sofas made of bamboo.

The floors were covered with thick soft mats and the front walls facing

the piazza were really sliding panels covered with opaque paper through

which the light cast a soft mellow luster. As a matter of fact, Dr. and

Mrs. Spears, the owners of the villa, had kept it as Japanese as possible

without interfering with their foreign ideas of comfort. The only

ornaments were several beautiful scrolls and screens and a few vases.

Instead of sitting down quietly and being served to tea, which was

evidently the next duty expected of them by these formal domestics,

Billie and her friends rushed from one room to another in a state of

eager curiosity. They poked their inquisitive little noses into the

charming bedrooms and even peeped into the mysterious kitchen quarters

where O'Haru reigned supreme,

"It's Japanese enough to be pretty and American enough to be

comfortable," observed Nancy, arranging her curls at one of the bedroom

mirrors.

"I don't know why you call it 'American,'" objected Billie. "I think you

should say 'international,' since beds may be imported from Turkey,

Russia, Prussia, England, or France, to say nothing of Germany and

Italy."

"Well, no matter what nationality it is, I'm glad I'm going to sleep on a

bed instead of on the floor as Japanese girls do, with a little bench for

a pillow to keep from rumpling my hair."

Just then a Japanese girl appeared in the doorway. She was quite young,

perhaps seventeen, perhaps older, and enchantingly pretty.

"Her eyes are like stewed prunes," wrote Nancy to her mother that night,

"rich and black and luscious. Her hair is as black as father's ebony box

and quite as shiny; her skin smooth and creamy. She has a little rosebud

mouth and a small straight nose and she wore the most beautiful kimono,

all blue with a cerise sash or _obi_, as it is called. Her name is

'Onoye' and she's the daughter of the cook, O'Haru. She is just one of

the maids in the house, I suppose, but she seems better class and she

speaks a little English. Her mother adores her and I suppose Onoye is

being spoiled Japanese fashion, which is very different from American

fashion. Japanese girls are the most unselfish, uncomplaining,

considerate, everything-that-I'm-not little souls I ever saw."

Nancy's description of O'Haru's daughter was not exaggerated in the

least. Little Onoye, pausing timidly at the entrance to their bedroom,

was a vision to charm the eye. She blushed, smiled deprecatingly and hung

her head.

"Will honorable ladies be pleased to employ humble refreshment?" she

announced in a funny high voice with a prim, precise accent.

The girls would have laughed if it had not been impolite. All their

impulsive actions must be checked in this land of perfect manners, or

they would certainly appear rude and rough.

"We should be most pleased and happy, I am sure," answered Billie,

feeling that she must not be outdone in lofty expression, "But what

excellent English you speak. Do you live here, too?"

Onoye looked up and her face brightened.

"I make studying of American language one time," she said.

"And are we to have tea now?" asked Nancy as the Japanese girl backed out

of the room.

"If pleasingly to gracious ladies," she answered.

With bobs and bows, she led the way to a summer house in the garden where

the others were already installed in comfortable chairs.

"These are certainly the most hospitable servants I ever saw," Miss

Campbell was saying to Mary and Elinor. "They make one feel like a guest

in one's own house. I am sure if I lived here long, I should learn to

meet myself at the front door and invite myself to take refreshments in

the garden."

The girls smiled lazily. They seemed somehow to have entered into a land

of unrealities and dream pictures. The bamboo and rice paper villa was a

doll's house, the lovely garden, a stage setting and the picturesque band

of Japanese servants gliding noiselessly about, the chorus.

And while they talked and sipped their tea, a fat, decrepit pug dog came

slowly toward them down the walk on spindle legs. As the aged creature

approached, O'Haru paused and made it a profound bow. The girls choked

and sputtered in their tea and Miss Campbell laughed outright. They

learned afterwards that this venerable animal was "Nedda," the Spears'

pet pug, eighteen years old, and that every servant attached to the

household regarded her with great respect because they believed that she

was really Mr. Spears' grandmother.

Old Nedda was very pleased to meet with a little human company of her own

social status. She wagged her twisted tail cordially and when she heard

American voices speaking the language of her youth, she gave a little

expressive whine of pleasure.

"You poor old lonesome thing," exclaimed the compassionate Billie.

Just then a maid hurried up with a cushion. She had evidently been

detailed to look after Nedda in the absence of the mistress of the house;

to feed and bathe her; to see that she was covered up at night; to guard

against her sleeping in damp places. Nedda stepped gingerly on the mat,

moved round and round in a circle several times, even as the most

primitive dog might do, and settled herself in a round heap for her late

afternoon siesta. Then O'Sudzu, the little maid, spread a wadded silk

cover over the pampered old Nedda and departed, bowing again.

They were still laughing over this absurd incident when Mr. Campbell

appeared on the walk with two companions. One was a good looking young

man about twenty-one and the other a Japanese in European clothes, and

very handsome, the girls thought him, in spite of his Oriental features

and dark complexion.

CHAPTER II.

TEA IN THE GARDEN.

Nancy Brown instinctively put her hand to her curls when she saw the

three approach. Elinor patted her coronet braids. Mary blushed and

shrank timidly into the depths of her chair, for she was very shy; and

Billie, whose candid nature had no coquetry, looked calmly interested and

remarked:

"Dear old Papa, there he is with two visitors."

"I'm not at all surprised," said Miss Campbell smiling, "your Papa is one

of the most general inviters I ever knew. He always loved to entertain."

"How do my five beautiful American ladies feel?" called her jovial

relation as he entered the summer house. "Rested with humble refreshment

in poor modest little house?"

"Yes, indeed, honorable father," answered Billie laughing.

"I want you to meet my two friends, Nicholas Grimm and Yoritomo Ito,"

went on Mr. Campbell.

Nicholas Grimm was apparently a young Dutchman. His figure was well set

up and stocky, his features regular, his mouth firm with a good square

chin, and his clear dark eyes under bushy brows gazed on the world with a

frank, good-humored expression.

Yoritomo Ito was the best type of Japanese, lithe and straight, rather

tall, with shrewd brown eyes and a smile that always hovered about his

shapely mouth. He was immaculately neat and his skin looked as if it

might have been scrubbed and then polished. Not a speck of dust marred

his spotless linen or his dark blue suit.

"Mr. Ito, will you sit on a mat on the floor or in a chair?" asked Miss

Campbell when the introductions were over.

"Oh, he can be Japanese or American, whichever suits him," interrupted

Mr. Campbell, "though I'll wager you didn't do much floor sitting when

you went to Harvard, did you, Yoritomo?"

The Japanese's smile broadened somewhat when he answered with a slight

accent:

"American floors are not intended to be used as chairs."

"Meaning, Mr. Ito, that the American floors are not as entirely free from

dust as the Japanese floors?" inquired Miss Campbell.

"Oh, no, Madam," protested the Japanese, horrified at this implication of

rudeness but unable to dispel the impression nevertheless.

"I grant you that our houses are not as clean as yours," went on Miss

Campbell, "but you see we haven't time to remove our shoes whenever we

enter the house, and then we have so much furniture and so many hangings

to catch the dust. I don't see how you Japanese can resist the collecting

habit in a country where there are so many beautiful things to collect."

"My dear Cousin, they are as great collectors as anybody, only they keep

their valuables stored in a fire-proof house--what is it you call it,

Yoritomo?" asked Mr. Campbell.

"It is called in English language a 'go-down.'"

"So it is, a 'go-down.' It always reminds me of a steep grade down the

side of a mountain. Here they keep all their best clothes and vases and

ornaments and only bring out one vase and one scroll at a time. When they

grow tired of those things, they are stored and something else is brought

out, so that there is perpetual variety in the Japanese home."

"I should hate to have my best clothes locked in a fire-proof house,"

announced Nancy. "Suppose one wanted to make a quick change and the

key was mislaid."

"Ah, Miss Nancy," laughed Mr. Campbell, "it is not difficult to see where

your heart lies."

Yoritomo looked at Nancy with polite though evident interest which

gradually developed into a cautiously veiled admiration. He was about

to speak, when he was interrupted by the troop of little maids headed by

Onoye with tea and refreshments. It was Onoye who served the young

Japanese. First she bowed before him until her forehead almost touched

the ground. Then she placed a mat for him to sit upon and a low lacquer

tray containing tea and rice cakes. But Yoritomo, ignoring these humble

services, sat himself in a chair next to Nancy and little Onoye hastened

to rectify her mistake.

In the meantime, Nicholas Grimm was talking to Billie and Elinor.

"Are you from Holland?" they asked him.

"Several hundreds of years ago I was. Kinterhook, New York, has been my

home for the last generation."

"Good," exclaimed Billie, "I thought you were a Dutchman and it's lots

nicer to be an American, don't you think so?"

"I wouldn't care to change," answered Nicholas solemnly. "America's good

enough for me."

"Are you one of the engineers on the new railroad they are building?"

asked Billie.

"I'm going to lay a few ties," he answered.

"Are you going to build those little funny openwork bridges over all the

streams?" demanded Elinor.

"Something like it. Everything is picturesque in this country from

beggars to railroad bridges, and, speaking of bridges, have you explored

the garden yet? There's a ripping little bridge down there. When Mrs.

Spears gave garden parties that was one of the strolling places."

"Why, we didn't know we had such a pretentious garden!" exclaimed Billie.

"Papa wrote that he had sublet a suburban villa near Tokyo with an acre

or so of ground around it."

"An acre or so?" repeated Nicholas. "That's an estate to them. They can

put as much into an acre without crowding it as other people put into

ten. Perhaps you would like to explore the garden if you have had enough

honorable refreshment?"

"Oh, yes," they answered eagerly, and drawing shy little Mary from the

depths of her chair, Billie followed Elinor and the new friend down the

garden path.

"Would you be interested in seeing the garden?" asked Yoritomo of Nancy.

"I might be induced," she answered drooping her long eyelashes, to the

great amusement of Mr. Campbell, and they also wandered off, leaving the

two older people for a cousinly chat.

The girls were amazed at the beauty of the garden back of the house.

Against the high wall surrounding the small estate clustered masses of

flowers. Everywhere were little winding paths and an occasional grove of

stunted pines that gave the impression of great age. It was in exquisite

order, the green turf clipped to the smoothness of a velvet carpet. In

all the garden there was not a leaf nor twig out of place. Back of the

house the land sloped slightly and at the foot of this gentle depression

trickled a musical little stream. Here was a stone lantern five feet

high, also the miniature curved bridge; and to make the picture complete

in every Japanese detail, leaning pensively on the railing of the bridge,

stood Onoye. She herself might have been a bright colored flower in her

gay kimono and sash.

Only Mary noticed that the little Japanese was weeping softly. When she

saw the Americans coming, she hastily withdrew down one of the paths and

in another moment had disappeared entirely.

"Poor little thing," thought Mary, "perhaps her mother has been scolding

her."

Perhaps she had, indeed, for O'Haru, the housekeeper, presently appeared

looking for her daughter. Shading her eyes with one hand, she scanned the

vistas of the garden.

Mary left the group of friends and hastened down the path.

"Are you looking for Onoye?" she asked the old woman.

"Yes, honorable lady," answered O'Haru, trying to replace her uneasy and

troubled expression with a pleasant smile.

"She was on the bridge a moment ago. Is she unhappy? I think she was

crying."

"Have greatly kindness to forgive humble Japanese girl," answered O'Haru

in a low voice.

Mary thought the housekeeper was going to say more and no doubt, if she

had poured out her confidences at that time, many later misunderstandings

might have been averted. As it was, they were interrupted by Nancy and

her Japanese cavalier who turned the curve of the path and came full upon

them quite suddenly.

Instead of hastening away as quietly as possible, O'Haru immediately fell

on her knees and began speaking in a low voice in her own language.

There was nothing unusual in this. All the servants seemed to be in a

continual state of "nervous prostration," as Billie expressed it, and

Nancy, smiling and dimpling, followed Yoritomo down the path without

thinking any more about O'Haru.

"What was she saying, Mr. Ito?" she asked.

"You might accuse me of being a flatterer if I told you," he answered.

"But I don't understand."

"I mean she was speaking of you. 'The honorable young American lady,'"

she said, "'is very beautiful.'"

Nancy was flattered, as who would not have been over this frank

compliment. A rosy flush spread over her face and the dimple deepened

in her cheek.

"You see, you are an unusual type in this country, Miss Brown," continued

the Japanese. "You must expect to arouse comment wherever you go. Hair

with so much color to it, like polished copper and curling, too, causes

much admiration. You are very different from the Japanese."

Again Nancy felt flattered.

"I really believe I am rather pretty," she

thought. What she said was: "You are very

kind, Mr. Ito, but I am sure I think the Japanese

girls are just as pretty as American girls. Little

Onoye, our maid, is charming. She is a perfect

picture."

For the rest of the day, however, vain Nancy was enveloped in a rosy

cloud of self-satisfaction. It was pleasing to be admired and still more

pleasing to feel that the admiration was justified.

The truth is, that admiration was quite as stimulating to Nancy as it is

to the rest of us, and when she realized that the young Japanese had

fallen an instant victim to her charms, she felt some pardonable pride in

the power of her blue eyes and bright curls.

By this time the others had returned to the pagoda-like summer house.

"Come, Nancy, dear," floated Miss Campbell's voice across the garden. She

was too careful a chaperone to permit one of her girls to wander

at dusk with a strange young Japanese.

Nancy quickened her pace. Nevertheless, she felt a little impatient with

all these restrictions.

"I am almost eighteen. I suppose I might be trusted to look after myself

occasionally," she thought with some irritation.

"May I not see you again to-morrow, Miss Brown?" Yoritomo was asking.

"I am afraid you'll have to ask Miss Campbell."

"It is now almost the American dinner hour," he went on thoughtfully,

looking at his watch. "If I should be strolling to-morrow at this time

down by the bridge, it would be very pleasant. We could have a few words

together."

"But--" began Nancy, and the voices of her friends interrupted her.

They had paused near a great bush of azaleas in full bloom. Almost over

their heads the silver crescent of the new moon hung poised like a fairy

scimitar. It was exquisite and unreal. Nancy felt somehow out of place in

the lovely picture, while the young Japanese, standing intense and rigid

beside her, was as much a part of the Oriental garden as the stone

lantern and the fragrant spice bush near the path. Even his blue serge

European suit seemed to have lost its values in the deepening shadows.

"If I come every day to see you, there would be great comment," he said

in a low voice. "But often I shall wait on the bridge about this time."

It was only a little time ago that Nancy's mother had lengthened her

little daughter's skirts from shoe tops to ankles. The line of the old

hem was still noticeable in some of her summer frocks. Just six months

since, Nancy had tucked up the bunch of curls into a Psyche knot and

transformed the ribbon bow into a velvet bandeau. Since she had been old

enough to go to parties she had had boy admirers who had said sweet

things to her. But this was quite different, and Nancy, almost eighteen,

and capable of looking after herself, felt suddenly frightened.

"I--I must hurry," she said, and turning she ran as fast as she could up

the garden path nearly colliding with Billie and Mary who had come to

look for her.

"Why, Nancy, you are chasing along like a scared rabbit," cried Billie.

"Has anything happened to you?"

"Oh, no. I thought we had better run because it was so late," she

answered breathlessly, while Yoritomo, following close behind, calm and

collected, bade them a formal good night and hurried over to the summer

house to pay his respects to Miss Campbell and her cousin.

Nancy decided that night not to tell Billie, her intimate confidante,

what the Japanese had said to her. The walls were too thin, she thought.

Besides, she was curious to know if Yoritomo would be on the bridge the

next afternoon. Just how she intended to find this out, she had not

then decided.

CHAPTER III.

SHOPPING IN JINRIKSHAS.

"I feel very much like a baby in a baby carriage," observed Miss Helen

Campbell as Mr. Campbell almost lifted her into the graceful little

two-wheeled vehicle. "And is that poor soul going to turn into a horse

and pull me?" she demanded.

"You aren't such a heavy load," replied her cousin. "I doubt if the S. P.

C. A. would get excited over it. I am only sorry you have to be alone,

but I suppose those four inseparables are paired off as usual. Billie

with Nancy and Mary with Elinor."

"Indeed, I much prefer to be alone," said Miss Campbell. "Then I can hold

on with both hands in case I am upset backwards."

"You never will be. They will treat you like spun glass. You will take

good care of the ladies, Komatsu," he said to the 'riksha man who,

leaning against the garden wall, resembled a bronze figure, brown and

muscular.

"Gracious lady of fearing not need," answered Komatsu with an

ingratiating smile as he stepped between the shafts of the 'riksha.

"It is impossible to tell how much English they know and how much they

don't know," Mr. Campbell confided to his relative in a low voice. "They

never ask twice and they always make some kind of an out at a reply. But

I think, until I can go with you, it is safer for you to go in the

'rikshas. The common people here aren't used to motor cars and there are

still some fanatics in Japan, you know, who are opposed to every sort of

progress and the invasion of foreign customs."

"Good-by, Papa," called Billie, "I do wish you were not a working man so

that you could go with us."

"I am sorry I must be a laborer in the vineyards, Miss Wilhelmina," he

answered, "but it's only that you may ride in a fine carriage and wear a

silk robe."

"Silk robe?" repeated Miss Campbell. "That's just what I want. Komatsu,

we wish to go to a silk shop," she ordered the man-servant, speaking

very loud and distinctly as if she were addressing a deaf person.

Komatsu grinned amiably.

"I bring honorable lady to fine shop with quickness."

The next moment the three vehicles were flying along the road drawn by

three tireless individuals, whose good nature, like the widow's cruse,

knew no diminishing.

It would be difficult to find in all the world a more beautiful city than

Tokyo at this season of the year. It is really a city of gardens and

everywhere are palms and pines and waving willow trees, magnificent

arbors of wisteria not yet in bloom and splendid azalea bushes bursting

into masses of white and pink blossoms. Even the humblest brown cottage

has its bit of garden, for the love of flowers is innate in every

Japanese nature: it is a national trait.

"There is no prospect that isn't graceful and picturesque," thought Mary

watching an old fruit and vegetable man in front of them. He wore a dull

blue cotton tunic much faded but still a heavenly color, and on either

end of a pole resting on his shoulders was a flat brown basket filled

with small oranges and vegetables of an unknown variety. Behind him

walked an old woman in a dull brown and purple dress with an orange sash

around her waist. Her back was burdened with a great bundle of bark. The

sun was hot and many of the wayfarers carried paper umbrellas. Most of

the women had babies swung on their backs and sometimes shiny little

black eyes peeped out from the front of a kimono, the mother's arms being

engaged in supporting another burden on her back.

"It seems to me the women work very hard in this country," remarked

Elinor severely, pointing to a cart filled with charcoal propelled by two

women and a man. One of the women had a baby on her back and another

child holding to her skirts.

"They do," said Mary. "Even the women in the upper classes have to work

hard. Don't you remember what the missionary on the steamer told us? The

wife is always the first one up in the household no matter how many

servants she has. She has to bring her mean old mother-in-law a cup of

tea and get out her husband's clothes. The mother-in-law has had to work

so hard when she was a daughter-in-law that she takes it out on her son's

wife later."

"I'd like to see an American wife ridden by her mother-in-law that way,"

broke in Elinor indignantly.

"But then the Japanese daughter-in-law's turn comes later," said Mary

laughing, "when she gets to be a mother-in-law. So it's all nicely

balanced."

But the streets were too interesting to pursue the subject of

mother-in-law any further. They were passing a row of open-fronted shops

on the edges of which customers were squatted looking at materials while

the proprietor bobbed and smiled and dickered over his bargains. Red and

yellow banners hung in a row from the roof of the shop, the gay colored

hieroglyphics on them indicating what manner of goods were displayed

within.

"Here's a nice little silk shop, Komatsu. Let us stop here," called Miss

Campbell.

But Komatsu only grinned over his shoulder and called:

"Too littleness for gracious big lady."

"But I like the looks of this place, Komatsu," said the gracious big lady

helplessly.

However Komatsu had his own ideas of obedience and he trotted on, never

pausing until he reached a large silk store thronged with clerks and

customers.

Here all the 'rikshas drew up and the girls alighted with Miss Campbell,

who was a little red in the face but determined to overlook the

annoyance of orders disregarded.

The front of the store was screened from the street by dark blue cotton

curtains behind which was a roofed platform carpeted with matting. Here

sat a group of clerks, each with his _soroban_ or adding machine at his

side. Little Japanese boys, their shoulders loaded with bales of rich

materials, staggered about, and through the open doors of the fire-proof

warehouse they caught glimpses of costly stuffs stored away. An

obsequious clerk who spoke excellent English came forward and presently,

when their eyes became accustomed to the busy, brilliantly colored scene,

they began to examine silk materials on their own account. Miss Campbell

made each of her charges a present of _crêpe de chine_ and still was not

very much out of pocket. As they were about to leave, they were followed

by a chorus of shouts.

"What in the world is the matter?" demanded Miss Campbell uneasily. "Has

the place caught fire, or didn't we give the right amount of change?"

"No, madam," answered the polite English-speaking clerk, who had

accompanied her to the sidewalk. "They are saying farewell. In English

it would mean, 'Thanks for your continued favors.'"

"Don't mention it," said Miss Campbell. "We'll come again."

The clerk smiled and bowed formally and once more they whirled away in

their 'rikshas. They visited many shops in Tokyo that morning. It was

like a fascinating bazaar and it seemed impossible to tear themselves

away, although Komatsu kept always close to their elbows and several

times observed:

"Muchly more time. Come again."

At last, just as an ominous mass of black clouds had spread itself over

the heavens, against which the brilliant colors of the signs and the

people's clothes stood out in bold relief, they started for home. But on

the outskirts of the city great drops of rain pelted them in the face,

the advance scouts of a tremendous downpour.

"Oh, Komatsu, we will ruin our clothes," cried Miss Campbell in alarm.

"You must take us somewhere until the rain is over."

They were passing the high walls of a garden, the gate of which stood

open. Without an instant's hesitation Komatsu turned in and the three

'rikshas raced up a broad walk toward a Japanese house at the end.

Several smiling hospitable persons whom they took to be servants ran out

with large umbrellas made of oiled paper and protected the five ladies,

who hurried unceremoniously into the house just as the heavens opened and

the rain came down in bucketfuls.

Three Japanese ladies, seated on the floor drinking tea, rose quickly and

made low formal bows. The five refugees from the storm returned the bows

with some bewilderment.

"I do hope you will pardon this intrusion," Miss Campbell found herself

saying. "The storm was so sudden and terrible, we fled to the nearest

house."

One of the little Japanese ladies bowed. She was evidently the mistress

of the house, but she spoke no English.

Miss Campbell pointed outside to the rain and made expressive signs

indicative of haste. It was really like being in a deaf and dumb asylum.

Then the little lady smiled again and bowed again, and the others bowed.

"Good heavens, Billie, what am I to do? Must I continue to smile and bob

and bow forever? Do come to my rescue!"

But the hospitable hostess now hurried from the room and presently

reappeared followed by her maids, each of whom carried a little lacquered

table. It was indicated that the American guests would confer a favor if

they would seat themselves.

"I've never sat on the floor in my life," complained Miss Campbell in a

low voice. "It will kill me. I am certain it will displace a ligament."

"You'll just have to, Cousin. Try sitting on your feet. That's the way

they do."

"I think tailor-fashion would be easier," answered the poor lady. "Don't

help me. They might take it for rudeness. Everything is bad manners in

this country."

Crossing her feet, she slid slowly to the floor. The visitors were

promptly served with delicious tea, rice cakes, candied fruits and other

confections molded and colored like the flowers in season.

Certainly that was one of the most silent and ceremonious tea parties

ever given. It was all dumb show, but the manners of the three Japanese

ladies were exquisite. While this excruciatingly polite scene transpired,

there raged such a storm of wind and rain that at each moment they feared

the fragile bamboo and rice paper abode would be blown from its slight

foundations.

"They won't lose much if it's blown away," thought Billie. "There's not a

stick of furniture to be seen except a screen."

In one corner of the room was a splendid vase almost as tall as she was,

and on the wall hung a scroll showing two women gathering cherry

blossoms. On the floor were soft mats fitted closely together.

Suddenly Billie blushed scarlet.

"Oh, Cousin Helen," she exclaimed. "We forgot to take off our shoes."

"Don't speak to me," answered her relation. "My legs have gone to sleep

and I have lost the power to move them. I am in an agony of pain."

At this moment a figure darkened the doorway. The three Japanese women

rose and bowed low and the servants made obeisances. The five Americans

were amazed to recognize their friend of yesterday, Yoritomo Ito. He was

quite as amazed as they were, although he did not show it except by the

flick of an eyelash, because no well-bred Japanese ever shows surprise.

"How do you do, Mr. Ito?" cried Miss Campbell. "Is it possible that this

is your house we have broken into so rudely?"

It was indeed Mr. Ito's home, and, the three ladies were his mother, his

aunt and his sister.

"It is a great pleasure, I am sure, that you have found refuge in my

home. I trust they have served you well."

Then he spoke rapidly in Japanese to his mother, who smiled and clasped

her hands with joy, as if heaven could not have bestowed a greater gift

than the privilege to entertain these delightful foreigners.

"And are you the head of the family, Mr. Ito?" asked Miss Campbell.

"No, my father takes first place. He is a tea merchant in Tokyo. I have

also a younger brother who works with him. He did not wish to go to

America with me."

At this moment a human doll baby toddled into the room. His round little

head was bald except for a thick mat of hair on top. His beady black eyes

gleamed like polished glass. He wore a dark red kimono and his feet and

legs were bare.

"Oh, the darling," cried Mary whose love of children overcame any shyness

she might feel before strangers. The three Japanese were pleased at the

attention the little person created. The girls gathered around him in a

circle while he stood perfectly still regarding them curiously, as if

they were some new strange birds which had dropped into his room from the

skies.

Yoritomo also was pleased. He took the little fellow's hand in his and

led him from one to another while his relatives stood in a beaming row.

Children are called "treasure-flowers" in Japan, and are petted and

spoiled quite as much as American children.

"What a cunning little baby brother, Mr. Ito," said Nancy. "What is his

name?"

"Kenkyo," answered Yoritomo. Suddenly he turned and spoke to one of the

women and the "treasure-flower" was led from the room.

"Oh, don't send him away," objected Miss Campbell. "I haven't had half a

chance to see him yet."

"He is not dressed to see distinguished visitors," answered Yoritomo,

quickly. "My mother would like to show you some of her embroidery if

you would care to see it."

So the subject of little Kenkyo was dropped and Madame Ito, hurrying

away, returned in a moment with an armful of linen and silk on which she

had worked the most wonderful floral designs.

In the meantime, the faithful 'riksha man, Komatsu, had trotted all the

way through floods of rain to the Campbell villa half a mile distant, and

now returned in company with O'Haru. Between them they carried a covered

basket containing five mackintoshes, five pairs of overshoes and five

umbrellas.

Komatsu was very angry with O'Haru. He explained to Miss Campbell:

"I not wish, but she coming without not wish."

He pointed accusingly at the sad old face. O'Haru, dripping and

imperturbable, stood on the piazza near the entrance to the villa.

"That was very good of you, O'Haru; we appreciate your devotion," said

Miss Campbell, but the housekeeper did not appear to grasp all this fine

English. She seemed to be taking in every detail of the room and its

occupants. Nobody took any notice of her. All the ladies and the servants

were engaged in helping the guests on with their rain coats and

overshoes. Mme. Ito insisted on doing up their hats in paper bundles.

In the midst of a great deal of leave-taking and much smiling and bowing,

Yoritomo found time to say to Nancy:

"You see, chance has favored me to-day. The rain which kept me away from

the bridge has brought you to my home."

Nancy blushed in spite of her efforts not to. She felt half pleased and

half frightened at the earnest manner of the young Japanese. He was

undeniably handsome and graceful, with a self-possession she had never

seen equaled. Just then a dark figure darted across the floor so swiftly

that it was like a flash of brown wings in the air. There was a low

exclamation from the ladies, a bird-like chatter from the servants, and

for one brief moment the surprised Americans beheld old O'Haru on her

knees before little Kenkyo in the act of touching her forehead to the

floor. She drew a beautiful, bright-colored toy from her bosom and gave

it to the solemn-eyed little boy. Then, bowing again with extreme

reverence, she rose and left the house. When they next saw her she was

swinging along in the rain on her wooden clogs. Miss Campbell made

Komatsu stop the 'riksha and invited her to climb in, but she refused

politely but firmly.

"Extraordinary creature," exclaimed Miss Campbell, but Komatsu could

offer no explanation.

CHAPTER IV.

THE GARDEN IN THE RAIN.

For three interminable days the rain poured down uninterruptedly. The

floodgates of heaven had opened and it seemed as though they would never

close again. The all-pervading dampness and chill brought illness to the

Campbell household of a kind not to be healed by medicine. Homesickness

it was, and it spread rapidly like a contagious disease. Only one member

of the party of Americans was not afflicted and that was Mr. Campbell,

who had lived in many climates and countries and was accustomed to

seasons of rain and wet. Moreover, as he himself had said, he had no home

to be sick for. He felt a supreme content in the thought of having his

daughter with him and no amount of rain could chill his enthusiasm.

Miss Campbell took to her bed with an attack of rheumatism, brought on,

she insisted, from having sat on the floor at the home of Mme. Ito. Mary

began a diary of her experiences in Japan and had several private weeping

spells entirely due to the unsurpassed dismalness of the weather. Billie

endeavored to throw off her depression by giving Onoye lessons in English

in exchange for lessons in Japanese, and in the course of these lessons

she learned a little of Onoye's history. O'Haru had been obliged to go to

work after the death of her husband who had lost all his property in a

fire. Onoye's only brother had been killed in great "bat-tel." The family

had had "muchly unfortune. All money gone--nothing."

At the conclusion of this sad story told mostly by expressive gestures

and queerly chosen words, Onoye smiled sweetly. That is the only polite

thing for a well brought up Japanese girl to do even when her own

misfortunes are the subject of the conversation.

"What a shame," Billie exclaimed sympathetically. "I should think you

would learn something, some trade, I mean, Onoye. You are much too clever

to be a housemaid. But I suppose you will marry. I hear there are no old

maids in Japan."

Onoye shook her head and smiled sadly. Perhaps she did not understand

Billie's remark because she did not reply.

"Old maid, Onoye, is one who never marries," explained Nancy at the

dressing table arranging her hair.

"Ah, Komatsu old maid. He not marry."

"No, no, Komatsu is a man," said Billie trying not to laugh. "Old maid is

a woman who has no husband, like Miss Campbell."

"Old maid," repeated Onoye, and because of what happened that very

evening, it was evident that the retentive Japanese memory had not lost

the words.

In the afternoon there came a characteristic note from Mr. Campbell to

his cousin.

"Tell O'Haru to put on the big pot and the little," it ran, "and to kill

the fatted calf. I am going to cheer up my gloomy household by bringing

four men home to dinner. If it were not for these flimsy little card

houses, I would suggest a dance afterwards, but I couldn't answer for

the walls and roof if two young Americans danced a two-step in the

parlor."

"I am sure a two-step is no rougher than one of these storms of wind and

rain," observed Miss Campbell, feeling a sudden loyalty toward everything

American, including dances.

O'Haru was informed of the party and the house became at once a beehive

of activity. Several of the little maids, without being told, took down

all the dresses in the wardrobes and began drying them out with square

boxes of red embers.

"I'd like to be done the same way," remarked Miss Campbell. "I think I am

just as mildewed as my clothes."

The kitchen quarters of the house fairly vibrated with the stir of

preparation. In the living rooms the air was dried with small charcoal

stoves. The gardener was seen bringing in armfuls of flowers; and with

all the activity and preparation, there was no noise, not a sound. It

was positively uncanny.

Late in the afternoon Nancy slipped away from this noiseless busy scene

and tripped demurely down a garden path toward the bridge. She was not

exactly bent on mischief but she wanted to satisfy her curiosity about

something. The rain had lessened considerably but it was still necessary

for her to protect her recently arranged curls with her small blue silk

umbrella. In her mackintosh of changeable silk in two shades of blue, she

made a charming picture coming down the rain-soaked path. The garden

itself was a thing of beauty. On the end of every pine needle hung a

crystal drop, and through the thin veil of mist clinging to the shrubbery

a clump of azaleas glowed like a crimson flame. Taking a path to the

left, Nancy began the gentle and almost imperceptible descent to the

little bridge. The air was filled with the perfume of wild roses and late

plum blossoms. It was really a fairy land, this Japan; a place too

exquisite and unreal for human beings to live in. She began to sing

softly to herself Elinor's favorite song:

"'Know'st thou the land of the citron bloom?'"

As she approached the bridge she felt a little frightened for some

reason. It was rather reckless of her to come down to this lonely place

in the late afternoon even if it was their own premises. It was the first

time she had done it and she decided it would be the last. But as long as

she had come, she would see it through. Nancy could hardly explain to

herself what she meant by "seeing it through."

She would stroll carelessly down the path, walk across the bridge, pause

a moment and walk back again, not looking behind her of course, as, if

she were observed, and she was sure she was not, she would pretend she

was out for a walk and had not expected to meet anyone. Thus Nancy

reasoned with herself, but by the time she had reached the bridge she had

changed her mind and was about to turn and hasten back, when she noticed

a beautiful tea rose that had been laid conspicuously on the hand rail of

the bridge.

"He has been here," she thought. "He must have just gone. The rose is

quite fresh."

Sticking its long stem through the buttonhole of her raincoat, she

glanced about her curiously. Somehow, behind every clump of shrubs and

every branching pine tree she felt black eyes staring at her and yet she

was sure she was alone. Again she started for the house, feeling

profoundly relieved that Yoritomo had not waited, if, indeed, it was he

who had left the rose. Suddenly Nancy's heart jumped into her throat and

she felt a cold chill down her spinal column,--and for no reason, except

that standing in front of her was not a man, but a woman. The stranger

was too tall to be a Japanese and she was dressed, moreover, in European

clothes,--a beautifully fitting tailor-made suit and English traveling

hat of stitched cloth. But there was something faintly suggestive of the

Japanese about her face. Perhaps it was the slightly slanting eyes and

the smooth olive skin. Her hair was much lighter than her eyes and quite

fluffy; her features were regular and there was a graceful dignity in the

poise of her head on her shoulders. Nancy concluded after a swift

examination that she was, if peculiar looking, still strangely

fascinating.

"May I ask your pardon for intruding on your beautiful gardens?" began

the woman, speaking with a slightly English accent. "I did not expect

to meet any one on this rainy afternoon."

Nancy wondered how she had got into the garden and where she had come

from. These things the stranger did not explain. However, Nancy answered

politely:

"It isn't my garden, but I am sure Mr. Campbell would be delighted to

have other people enjoy it."

"You are a sweet child," said the woman, deliberately taking Nancy's chin

in her hand and looking down at her, "a sweet, exquisite child."

After all, Nancy decided, this mysterious lady was both fascinating and

beautiful.

"And who is Mr. Campbell?"

Nancy explained. In fact, after a few leading questions, she disclosed

the entire history of the household; who they were, how long they

expected to stay, and how they happened to be spending the summer in

Japan.

"Is it possible that you are the Motor Maids who have ridden so many

thousands of miles in a red car?" asked the stranger.

Nancy opened her eyes.

"Yes," she answered. "But we never dreamed we were so famous as that."

"Ah, you will find that Tokyo is not so far removed from the world,"

answered the woman, smiling gravely. "And Mr. Campbell is building a

railroad, you say?"

"No, I didn't say so," replied Nancy, a little surprised. "He's not

building anything that I know of. He is being consulted, or something."

But the stranger did not seem to have heard her.

"I must be going," she said absently. "You are an adorably pretty child.

It's been a pleasure to see you. I only wandered in here because I was

unhappy and wanted to be alone, but you have cheered me up. Run along,

now, and don't walk in Japanese gardens at dusk unattended too often."

Her glance fell on the tea rose. "And remember that the Japanese do not

understand the meaning of the word 'flirtation.' Good-by, _ma cherie,

belle et charmante_. You won't tell your Mr. Campbell that I trespassed

on his garden, will you? Promise?"

"I promise," answered Nancy, quite bewildered and fascinated.

Then the mysterious lady disappeared down a dripping path and Nancy was

left standing alone in the rain.

"I am sorry I promised," was her first thought. "It would have been such

fun to tell Billie." But her second thought was: "Billie would have

asked me why I had gone walking at dusk in the rain, and what a teasing I

should have got."

It was late and she hurried back to dress for dinner. No one had missed

her because Billie had been helping Miss Campbell into her best evening

frock, and the others were all engaged in their own toilets.

That evening at half past seven a very jolly party gathered around the

dinner table, which was a miracle of beauty with its decorations of apple

blossoms. Besides Nicholas Grimm and Yoritomo Ito, there were two

Englishmen, Reginald Carlton, a young man who was taking a trip around

the world by way of finishing his education, and Mr. Buxton, an older man

who lived in Tokyo. All the men wore evening clothes, although Mr.

Campbell had sighed when Billie made him appear in his. He was a man of

camps and open air and seldom appeared in society. Nancy watched his

rugged, handsome face admiringly.

"What a splendid looking man he is," she was thinking, when Yoritomo at

her right said in a low voice:

"You did go to the bridge."

"How do you know?" she asked.

"Because I saw the rose. It was fastened on your rain coat, which you

left on a hook in the passage with your wet umbrella."

"I only went for the air," said Nancy hastily. "I shall not go again

alone."

Yoritomo's face darkened, and he turned his attention to his dinner.

In the meantime the others were all amusing themselves in various ways,

and there was a great deal of talk and laughter. Miss Campbell felt

rejuvenated and her rheumatic twinges had entirely disappeared.

"There is nothing like a little pleasure for driving acidity out of the

system," she thought, as she finished the last spoonful of her dessert of

beautifully preserved fruits.

Onoye had entered, carrying a small lacquered tray on which lay a square,

foreign-looking visiting card.

"A lady calling to the honorable old maid," she announced calmly at Miss

Campbell's elbow.

"The what?" cried Mr. Campbell.

"The honorable old maid," repeated poor Onoye, with her precise accent,

smiling innocently.

There was a perfect shout of laughter. Only Yoritomo's face remained

impassive, but who could tell what angry thoughts were hidden behind that

mask-like face? Billie tried to explain how the mistake had occurred, and

Onoye rushed from the room in an agony of embarrassment and shame.

"Don't scold her, Cousin. She thought she had learned a new English

word," Billie besought Miss Campbell.

"Scold her? I should think not. I don't mind being called an 'honorable

old maid,' I am sure. But who is this caller, I wonder?" she added, in

a lower voice.

Mr. Campbell examined the card with some curiosity. "Mme. Marie

Fontaine," it read. Miss Campbell hastened into the drawing-room, and

Nancy, peeping through the doors a few minutes later, was surprised to

find that Mme. Fontame was her recent companion in the garden.

The visit was very brief, and Miss Campbell presently returned looking

somewhat amused and a little annoyed.

"Mme. Fontaine wished to know if she might have an interview with the

Motor Maids on the subject of their motor trip across the American

continent and through the British Isles."

"And what did you tell her?" demanded the four girls in one voice, it

must be confessed somewhat eagerly.

"I told her that while we appreciated the compliment, it would be

impossible."

"Quite right," said Mr. Campbell. "Publicity is the thing of all others I

wish to avoid, and if an article like that appeared in a Tokyo paper,

either in Japanese or English, you would probably be the object of the

most disagreeable curiosity. Am I not right, Yoritomo?"

"Oh, yes. It would not be agreeable to the young ladies. Many people

would come to look at them."

"I am very glad my action is approved, then," said Miss Campbell. "I have

an old-fashioned horror of notoriety like that, and I am sure none of my

girls would care to see herself in a newspaper. Would she?"

"No, indeed," they answered promptly in a chorus.

In a secret place in Nancy's mind, however, she saw a picture of her own

pretty face occupying at least one-third of a newspaper page and

underneath, blazoned in large letters: "The Beautiful Miss Anne Starbuck

Brown, One of the Famous Motor Maids."

CHAPTER V.

IN THE LIBRARY.

The house Mr. Campbell had sub-let for the summer was somewhat

labyrinthian in design, since it was only one story high and contained

many rooms for living and sleeping, besides the servants' quarters in the

rear. Mr. Spears had engaged a Japanese architect to build the house and

Japanese and European ideas were curiously combined in its construction.

Down the middle ran a broad hall, intersected at the back by another hall

running across the house. This was known as "the passage," and it was in

a manner a social boundary line, dividing the quarters of master and

servants. Only one opening broke the monotony of the uninterrupted

partition on the far side of the passage. This was the door into the

library which had been placed in a quiet and out-of-the-way corner

overlooking the garden.

This library was decidedly the most attractive and home-like room in the

villa. There was a large open fireplace at one end where a pile of

blazing logs now crackled cheerfully. It would have taken an immense

"go-down" to accommodate all the books which lined the walls. But Mr.

Spears was evidently not afraid of fire, for they stood in serried ranks,

rows and rows of them, and between each group of shelves was a panel of

carved and polished wood. Over the mantel hung a beautiful Japanese

print. Curtains of some heavy material, old rose in color, hung at the

windows, and instead of the usual three by six mats, the floor was

covered with an Oriental rug in soft warm colors. There were many low,

comfortable chairs about and several tables on which stood shaded lamps.

Later in the evening after Mr. Campbell's dinner party, the three older

members of the company sat down in the drawing-room for a quiet game,

while the young people repaired to the library where they might talk and

laugh freely without fear of disturbing the players.

"Oh, I say, what a jolly room," exclaimed Reginald Carlton, looking about

him with interest.

"Isn't it?" agreed Billie. "Papa says that if people would only stick to

Japanese notions of decoration and add a few comfortable chairs to sit

in, they would never make any mistakes. You see, there's only one picture

in this room, but that's considered very fine. It's by a famous Japanese

artist."

"I like that one-picture idea," put in Nicholas Grimm, "especially if it

is at a comfortable elevation. Just pull up an easy chair and raise your

eyes and you have seen all there is to see. There's a delightful

simplicity about that to me. But I suppose Yoritomo would call this room

crowded, nevertheless. How about it, old man? It wouldn't take you

fifteen minutes to pull down the curtains and roll up the rug and store

them in the 'go-down.' Would it, now, honor bright?"

"No, no. I like the European furnishings," protested the Japanese. "You

must remember that I lived in America for many years. There is only one

thing I would store in the 'go-down,' and that is the little safe."

He pointed to a small American fire-proof safe in a corner of the room.

"But that is our 'go-down,'" laughed Billie. "We haven't any other. When

Papa first came here he discovered that there was no place to lock up

anything except some desk drawers, and he rented this little safe for his

papers. A Japanese gentleman advised him to do it. He told Papa there was

a great deal of curiosity here about the private business of foreigners."

A dark flush overspread Yoritomo's face and gradually faded out. The

others did not notice it, however. They had followed Nicholas across

the room and were standing in a circle around the safe, while the young

American touched it with a caressing hand.

"Made in Newark, N.J., U.S.A.," he exclaimed. "Think of that. It's like

meeting an old friend from home."

"A very proper kind of friend," observed Reginald. "The kind that keeps a

secret behind a combination lock."

"I don't call it being a real friend to have any combination at all," put

in Elinor, "because anybody who learns the combination can get the

secret."

Nicholas laughed.

"You don't understand the Japanese, Miss Butler," he exclaimed. "They

regard all persons with important secrets as combination safes. Sooner or

later they believe they can learn any combination if they only persist."

"Why don't you stand up for your country, Mr. Ito?" asked Nancy.

"What Nicholas says is true," answered Yoritomo. "If the secret concerns

his country, the Japanese will learn it if he must give up his life. What

you call 'spy' in your language should be changed to patriot, or one who

risks all for his country. Every Japanese is a spy, because every

Japanese will suffer for Japan."

"Perfectly good logic," said Nicholas.

"Are you a spy?" asked Mary, so innocently that even the imperturbable

Yoritomo laughed.

"I am, in the sense of being a patriot," he answered. "There is nothing I

would not do for Japan."

"Are you a Samurai?" asked Billie, hardly understanding the meaning of

the word.

"My grandfather was. There are no real samurai now. Only descendants."

"But what were they?"

Yoritomo's face became strangely animated.

"A samurai was a soldier," he said. "He was brave and feared neither

death nor suffering in any form. He carried two swords, a long one for

fighting and a short one for defense. The sword was the emblem of the

samurai spirit. He took pride in keeping it sharp and bright."

"Aren't some of the descendants of the old warrior samurai rather

fanatical?" asked Reginald. "That is, I mean--" he hesitated, seeing a

peculiar gleam in Yoritomo's eyes, "aren't some opposed to the entrance

of foreigners into Japan, and the invasion of foreign ideas--perhaps that

feeling has died out now?"

"The old samurai defended his country against the foreigner and no

descendant of a samurai, either now or ever, would endure for a foreigner

to learn the secrets of his country. But that is not fanaticism. That is

patriotism. He is very jealous of his country's honor, you understand.

You will look at the history of other countries. First it is only a few

foreigners; then more and more. They slip into the government. They

spread their ideas and customs--they get a foot-hold--then--all of a

sudden, what is it? Not Japan any longer--but--America--England."

"Oh, come off, Yoritomo," cried Nicholas, laughing. "What in the name of

all the powers are you driving at? There are about forty millions of

people on this island and I guess a few foreigners won't make much

headway in such a bunch as that."

"At least, you are not afraid of being Americanized, Mr. Ito," broke in

Nancy, "since you were educated in America."

"I am not afraid of the invasion of beautiful American young ladies,"

answered Yoritomo gallantly, and the others laughed and felt somewhat

relieved that the conversation had drifted into a less serious vein. They

drew their chairs into a circle about the fire and talked pleasantly for

some time, when they were summoned back to the drawing-room by Mr.

Campbell, who reminded Elinor of a promise she had made to him to sing

for them with her guitar.

This performance was a subject of wondering curiosity to the servants of

the household. Through the door to the dining-room Elinor caught a

glimpse of a multitude of natives crouched on the floor behind the

screen, including Komatsu and O'Haru, all the little maids, the

numerous grandmothers, and the 'riksha men who had brought the guests out

from Tokyo. If the music seemed strange to the Japanese ear trained for

centuries to a curious uneven scale, at least they admired Elinor's

lovely voice, clear and sweet as a bell. She had a large repertoire and

knew all the favorites of everybody. While she was singing "Oh, that we

two were Maying," at the request of Miss Campbell, Nancy, seated on the

couch beside Billie, near the door, whispered into her friend's ear:

"I left my handkerchief in the library," and slipped into the hall.

Hardly a moment later Billie, glancing through the door, saw Nancy in

the distance, beckoning violently. She rose and followed, much against

her will, thinking perhaps Nancy wished to bestow a confidence which

might just as well be kept until later.

"What on earth do you want?" she asked, with the irritability intimate

friends use toward each other without meaning really to be cross.

"The queerest thing has happened. The library is perfectly black dark."

"I don't think there is anything specially remarkable about that. The

fire had burned low before we left and I suppose one of the maids put out

the lamps. The Japs are nothing if not economical."

"They are nothing if not polite, too," argued Nancy. "And I am sure they

wouldn't put out the lights before the company left. Besides, they are

all listening to Elinor sing."

"Well, the lights are out and I don't see that it matters much,

Nancy-Bell. Let's go back and hear the rest of the song."

"Won't you come with me first to get my handkerchief?" pleaded Nancy. "I

know exactly where I left it, and I am afraid to go alone, if you want to

know the real truth."

"Oh, you little coward," laughed Billie good-naturedly, taking her arm.

"Come along, then."

The two young girls hastened down the long hall until they reached the

passage.

"Billie," whispered Nancy, pausing at the door. "You won't think me silly

if I tell you this? Of course it may have been imagination, but I was

awfully frightened when I came in here just now. I opened the door

suddenly and ran into the room before I realized it was dark. Then, of

course, I stopped short. The door had closed behind me and it seemed to

me that some one else was in the room. I remembered that as I opened the

door I heard some one move or collide with a chair. I stood perfectly

still for an instant. I was really frightened. Then I just flew."

"Perhaps it was one of the servants who had put out the lights and was

afraid to acknowledge it," suggested Billie. "The little maids are as

timid as wild things."

"But every servant in the house is in the dining room, I tell you. I saw

them as I went down the hall, and I counted them just for fun. There were

the four little maids and Onoye and O'Haru and Komatsu and the three

jinriksha men and the three old grandmothers and the gardener. There

aren't any others."

The door leading into the library was not a sliding panel of thick opaque

paper, like the usual Japanese door, but a real European door of heavy

wood with a brass handle.

"Don't you think we had better get your father, Billie, or one of the

boys?" whispered Nancy, placing a detaining hand on her friend's arm.

"But that would be a needless alarm. Everybody would want to know what

was the matter. There would have to be explanations and Cousin Helen

would be frightened. Besides, I am sure it was just your vivid

imagination, Nancy."

She opened the door very softly and peeped in. The room was flooded with

the radiance of two shaded lamps, both burning brightly; in fact, one had

been turned up too high, as if lighted in haste.

"Oh," gasped Nancy, in amazement.

But Billie was determined not to be surprised.

"Take my word for it, Nancy; one of the servants put out the lights by

mistake, thinking we had finished in here for the night, and when you

returned he or she was frightened and lit them again, thinking that

honorable American young lady might be displeased."

Nancy found her handkerchief.

"Very well," she said. "If that is your expert opinion I am willing to

abide by it, but I was fright--"

Before she could finish one of the long French windows blew open and a

gust of wet wind extinguished the lamp on a table near the window. Billie

marched boldly over and closed and bolted the window.

"Whoever it was," she said, "must have got out this way."

The girls exchanged a long glance of uneasy speculation. In the dim light

of the remaining lamp the room seemed filled with shadows. Billie drew

the heavy curtains across the casement. Those at the other window were

already drawn.

"Come along, Nancy-Bell," she exclaimed. "Thieves don't blow out lights

and then come back and relight them. It would be extremely unprofessional

if they did and very reckless besides. It's certain to be one of those

timid little persons in a kimono. We had better be getting back to the

drawing-room or Papa will be wondering what has become of us."

Hardly had they closed the door after them, when a figure, wrapped from

head to foot in a long brown garment something like a cape, emerged from

behind the other curtains. Whoever it was, whether man or woman, it was

impossible to judge, opened the door, peeped cautiously into the passage

and, finding it quite empty, marched boldly out. In another moment the

intruder had disappeared into the garden.

As the girls passed along the hall they paused to notice the picturesque

group of servants gathered near the door. There was a smile on every

face, not a smile of ridicule, but of courteous enjoyment.

"Is there any rude person in the length and breadth of Japan?" thought

Billie, while Nancy once more counted heads and then shook her own

thoughtfully.

"I don't understand," she pondered, "but Billie is usually right, so I'll

just cease to worry."

CHAPTER VI.

CHERRY BLOSSOMS.

A few hours of brilliant sunshine and all the dampness had been sucked up

from the earth; the air was warmed and dried and the mists rolled back

from the garden, revealing a fairy-land too exquisite to be real.

Something especially wonderful had happened that morning. The faces of

the little maids had been filled with a joyous expectancy as they hurried

from room to room on their household duties. A mysterious smile hovered

on the lips of Komatsu when he appeared to receive his orders. Even old

O'Haru was secretly immensely pleased about something, but they all had

evidently agreed among themselves to keep the great news secret until the

psychological moment had arrived when the ladies of the house and Mr.

Campbell had assembled on the piazza just before breakfast.

When this occurred word was swiftly and silently conveyed over the

household and all persons belonging to the domestic staff instantly

gathered in the hall and doorway.

"Why, what on earth is the matter with them?" Miss Campbell asked

uneasily. "Will you please look: the entire household collected in the

front hall."

Mr. Campbell was as much at a loss as his cousin.

"They look as if they were going to play a joke on us," observed Billie,

"Did you ever see anything so guileless and simple-hearted as they are?"

"Oh, I know what it is," cried Mary, clasping her hands with delight.

"There," she said, pointing to the old gardener, who was approaching by

way of one of the paths. There was an inimitable smile on his face, and

he carried tenderly and gingerly a double handful of brown branches on

which clustered delicate pink blossoms.

"It's the cherry blossoms! They are in bloom!" Mary shouted in her

enthusiasm. "That's why they are all so delighted. The dears! They are

just like a lot of children."

The crown of the year for the Japanese had indeed arrived, the season

when every cherry tree becomes a magnificent nosegay which has caught the

sunset's glow, and all the world goes forth to view the splendid sight.

The love of these people, young and old and of all classes, for flowers,

and particularly for cherry blossoms, is touching in its simplicity and

sincerity.

The old gardener was himself a delightful picture in his blue cotton,

tunic-like coat, queer, tight-fitting trousers and an enormous hat that

resembled an inverted flower basket. Against the coarse blue of his tunic

rested the delicate rosy cloud of blossoms. With an elaborate bow he

presented Mr. Campbell and each of the ladies with a branch. "Him muchly

more big soon all same," he said.

"Thank you, Saiki. They are very beautiful," said Miss Campbell, speaking

in the distinct, loud tone she used for persons not understanding her

own language.

The girls exclaimed and admired and Mr. Campbell was delighted. He felt a

kind of reverence for the old man's simple unaffected love of beauty. In

the meantime, the regiment of servants who had witnessed and enjoyed the

ceremony of presenting the first cherry blossoms to the master and

mistress of the house retired to their various occupations.

The pleasure and surprise of the foreigners over the beauty of the cherry

blossoms would be a memory for these humble people to cherish all their

lives. Perhaps they had never seen the like before, these honorable

barbarians; certainly nothing so perfect as the double blossom, of a

delicacy and shade not to be surpassed.

Later at the breakfast table Billie concocted a scheme.

"Papa," she began, "can't we take the 'Comet' and go sight-seeing? It

would be such fun, and while the 'rikshas are very nice, we are so

separated, we can't all sympathize together as we usually do."

"A kind of sympathy in detachments, is it?" asked Mr. Campbell. "But I

wanted to go with you on your first ride in the 'Comet.' I don't know

just how the people will take to a girl's driving a red 'devil-wagon,' as

they call it."

"Why not let Komatsu go along?"

"What do you think, Cousin?" asked Mr. Campbell.

Up to this time Miss Campbell had kept out of the discussion. The truth

is, she yearned to relieve the tedium of life by taking a trip in the red

motor car.

"Couldn't you get away and go with us?"

"Impossible this afternoon, because I have an appointment to meet some

very distinguished persons to discuss various plans. One can hardly be

polite enough as it is in this good-mannered country, and it would never

do to break an engagement. In another week or so I shall be free to take

the ladies on excursions."

"What is it all about, Papa?" asked Billie.

"Oh, government improvements, child. Things that are too important to be

talked about." He pinched her cheek. "Well, beautiful American ladies, if

you take Komatsu with you as interpreter and protector, guide and friend,

I think you might be trusted to make a little cherry-blossom excursion in

the 'Comet.' Only don't go too far or too fast and on your life don't run

over anything, even a chicken, or there'll be trouble for all concerned."

So it was settled, and after breakfast Billie rushed to the mysterious

back premises of the place on the other side of the house, where various

hitherto unsuspected industries seemed to be in progress. There was a

kitchen garden hidden by a hedge of althea bushes, a chicken yard, and

in a most picturesque building, used by the Spears for a carriage house,

the "Comet." So far they had been unable to find a chauffeur, and Mr.

Campbell himself had gone over all the machinery and put it in order.

Billie cranked up, and, jumping into her old accustomed place, guided the

motor car into the open. Komatsu came at a run from around the side of

the house. He was so amazed at sight of Billie in the chauffeur's seat

that he could not conceal his feelings.

"Komatsu, we want you to go with us to-day. We want you to show us the

cherry trees in Tokyo and Uyeno Park. I suppose we couldn't get to all

the famous cherry blossom places in one afternoon?"

"Him fast runner. No sakura all same see."

"No, no. We shall go quite slowly. We want to see everything."

In less than an hour the _hanami_, signifying in Japanese a picnic to a

famous place to view certain flowers in season, conducted on the most

modern lines in a red motor car, proceeded on its way. Komatsu, a

strangely incongruous figure, sat on the front seat beside Billie.

On the way to Tokyo the "Comet" created a sensation. All the varied

wayfarers on that picturesque highway paused and stared, pointing and

gesticulating.

The city was a vision of beauty. Most of its broad avenues are lined with

close set rows of cherry trees which were now bursting into blossom in

all the most delicate and exquisite shades of pink known to nature.

Komatsu guided them about the city with a kind of pleased and gratified

delight as if he were showing his own property. Sometimes he stood up and

pointed to the feathery tops of carefully nurtured cherry trees, glimpses

of which could be seen over the high walls surrounding private gardens.

The motorists were fairly bewildered by the beauty of it all. It was like

a vast conservatory with the roof taken off. Nothing could have been more

exotic or more lovely than the vista through the park with the white peak

of Fujiyama, queen of mountains, glistening in the distance.

Moreover, this little jaunt in the car had stirred their blood into

action. They felt once more the call of the road, the fever to be going.

The old accustomed sensation that they must make a certain place by such

and such a time had returned. They were of one opinion, this party of

Motor-Gypsies: to go back home until sunset would be a foolish waste of

golden hours. Their five wishes accorded like the notes of an harmonious

chord and presently Billie, influenced by the force of this silent

opinion, exclaimed:

"Suppose we take a country road and eat lunch later at some wayside tea

house?"

"Splendid!" cried the others almost before she had finished.

Miss Campbell raised one feeble objection--something about the

weather--but it was promptly overridden by her relative at the wheel,

and presently she settled down in her seat and abandoned herself to the

joy of motion.

"In all the ten thousands of miles we have covered in this car," she

remarked, "I never was happier than I am at this moment."

"Why can't we go to the Arakawa Ridge?" suggested Mary, consulting a

guide book. "It's only seven miles from here on the Sumida River and

there are miles and miles of road bordered by double-flowering cherry

trees."

This was agreeable to all concerned, and, accordingly, Komatsu guided

them to this famous spot, the pride of Tokyo. On the way they passed

hundreds of people in jinrikshas or on foot. Many of the pedestrians

carried paper parasols and fans, exactly like the chorus in the "Mikado."

Those who rode in the graceful little two-wheeled buggies looked out upon

the world with expressions of calm enjoyment.

The "Comet" was a conspicuous object as it progressed slowly along the

road, but so far all things worked together for good and there was no

cause for uneasiness. At a little roadside tea house they paused for

lunch. The building was nothing more than a shed with a low-hanging

thatched roof and sides made of coarse strips of matting joined together

with bamboo sticks. Humble as it was it possessed a peculiar charm, all

its own. They were presently to find that the rear of the tea house

facing a little garden was glorified into something rich and strange by a

magnificent azalea bush in full bloom. It reached to the roof of the

house and was a mass of deep red blossoms.

The ear was left in a pine grove near the house, and following Komatsu

along a rocky path they presently found themselves in this delectable

little garden. Here they were met by an old man and his wife, a very aged

couple whose gentle deprecating expressions almost moved Miss Campbell to

tears.

"The adorable old things," she exclaimed. "They remind me of two old

turtle doves."

Close at their heels came two little maids who conducted the ladies into

the tea house and brought tea for temporary refreshment, while Komatsu

consulted with the proprietor regarding lunch.

Presently one of the little maids hurried in and placed a menu in front

of Miss Campbell.

"Me speak little honorable American language," she said. "You like all

same American food? Will gracious lady make eyes to look?"

Miss Campbell raised her lorgnette and examined the menu while the small

maid backed away and disappeared, in the throes of extreme shyness over

her endeavors.

"Girls," said Miss Campbell, in a curious, strained voice, "don't any of

you dare to laugh because of course they are all peeping at us from

somewhere, but I want you all to make eyes to look at this amazing

production."

They crowded about her and over her shoulder read the following menu:

_Soup by egge

Eels to rice

Seaweed

Podadoe Sweete

Sponge boiled

Doormats a la U. S._

There were tears of laughter in Miss Campbell's eyes and her voice was so

shaky she could hardly trust herself to speak, even when she saw the

little maid returning around the corner of the azalea bush. The faces of

the four girls were crimson with suppressed laughter.

"Very nice, my dear," said Miss Campbell, "you may bring in luncheon as

soon as you can."

After she had gone there was a brief but eloquent silence.

"Do, some one, make a joke," whispered Elinor.

At that moment a strange looking bob-tailed cat walked by.

"There," cried Nancy, and they all instantly burst into hysterical

laughter.

"In the name of good health and excellent digestion, tell me what are

doormats?" asked Billie.

"Dear knows," answered her cousin, "but I think if they must be eaten it

would be best to take boiled sponges afterward."

The luncheon was purely Japanese, in spite of the English menu, and it

was really excellent.

"I never thought to come to eels," Miss Campbell observed, but she

enjoyed her portion, nevertheless.

"Doormats a la U. S." turned out to be a sweet cake with a sugary icing.

"I believe they were intended for doughnuts," observed that astute little

person, Mary Price, and no doubt she was quite right.

When the feast was over Miss Campbell paid the bill, which was

pathetically small, since there was no charge for tea and sweetmeats.

"How do we give the tip?" she asked.

"I know," answered Billie, "Papa taught me about that the other day." She

consulted her note book. Tearing out a leaf, she wrapped up what would

amount to about a dollar in American money, then with her little silver

pencil she wrote on the package "On chadai." "That means 'honorable money

for tea,'" she explained.

Next she clapped her hands. All through the house voices could be heard

calling "Hai! Hai!"

Presently the maid appeared hanging her head humbly. Billie motioned to

her that she wished the proprietor, who, indeed, was close at hand. With

an expression of much surprise he received the chadai and bowing to the

ground murmured something which Komatsu explained meant honorable thanks

for poor insignificant service.

Each guest on departing received a fan as a souvenir; because, as they

were to learn before they left Japan, no Japanese ever receives a present

without giving another in return. Every person attached to the tea house

went out to see the departure of the car, and the old woman clutched her

husband's arm fearfully when she heard the vibrations of the machinery

and saw Billie turn the "Comet" down the hillside to the main road.

At last, fortified by strange if not unpalatable food and thoroughly

enjoying themselves, they arrived at the entrance to the magnificent

avenue called Arakawa Ridge, along each side of which, as far as the eye

could see, ran two rows of cherry trees in full bloom.

The avenue was lined with 'rikshas, and hundreds of pedestrians paced

slowly along. They were in holiday attire and the bright colors of the

kimonos and obis made a bewildering and brilliant picture. At intervals

booths had been erected, decorated with lanterns, where refreshments were

sold, and nearby a roving band of musicians and dancers were entertaining

the crowd.

The mistake Billie made was to attempt to take the car through the

crowded road where apparently there were only pedestrians and jinrikshas.

But Komatsu had not objected and since they had been accustomed to take

the "Comet" wherever there was a navigable road, they pushed innocently

on. As for the populace celebrating the cherry blossom festival, they

evidently regarded the sight of a young woman driving a red devil-wagon

as something just short of miraculous. Slowly and at a dignified pace the

motor car moved along the avenue, and suddenly like a bolt from the blue

two things happened.

A little boy escaped from his sister's hand and ran across the road.

Billie reversed the lever just as the child fell under the wheels. At the

same instant a tire on a rear wheel exploded with a loud report.

Miss Campbell groaned and hid her face in her hands.

Instantly they were surrounded by a mob of angry people.

CHAPTER VII.

A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR.

In the uncertainty of that terrible moment everything turned black before

Billie's eyes.

"I am a murderer," was all she could think. "I've killed a little child."

When the mists had cleared away she saw a weird scene about her: hundreds

of Japanese men and women, speaking in low angry voices which somehow

reminded her of the breaking of the surf on the beach--perhaps because

the Japanese language has a sing-song rhythm. The little boy, apparently

limp and lifeless, lay in his sister's arms. Komatsu had leapt clear over

the front of the car and pushed his way through the people gathered about

them. With a hand as skillful as a doctor's he felt the child's pulse and

placed his ear over his heart.

"Baby only make believe dead," he said. "Honorable heart beating all same

like steam engine."

At these hopeful words Miss Campbell came to herself with a start. For a

moment she had been faint and sick with the notion of what had happened.

Never before in all their thousands of miles of touring in the "Comet"

had they injured so much as a fly; and now to run down a little child! It

was too dreadful to contemplate.

"Komatsu," she ordered, in an unsteady voice, "tell the girl to get in

and we will take her brother to the nearest doctor."

Komatsu conveyed this message to the stricken sister, who shook her head

violently.

"Honorable devil-wagon shoot pistol. Japanese no likee," he said.

Closer and closer pressed the tense mob about the party. These courteous

and gentle Japanese had suddenly been transformed into a fierce, savage

people.

From one end of Japan to the other a child is considered a sacred thing.

If Billie had injured a grown person the public sentiment would not have

been so strong, but to harm one of these little "treasure flowers" was to

strike at the very heart of the nation.

"Can't you understand that we are sorry and anxious to help you?" cried

Miss Campbell, addressing the mob, but her voice was lost in the subdued

threatening murmur which sounded like distant thunder heralding the

approach of a storm.

"Good heavens, Komatsu, what are we to do? The child might be saved if

they would only listen to reason."

"People no likee honorable devil-wagon. Going breaking little pieces all

same like sticks."

"No, no, they must not," ejaculated Billie. "We are sorry," she cried,

stretching out her hands appealingly to the circle of Japanese pressed

around the car. "We didn't mean to do it."

In the meantime Miss Campbell had produced her bottle of smelling salts,

the same that had accompanied her on all her trips, and climbed out of

the car. With a motion imperious and compelling she pushed aside the men

and women in the circle.

The sister had laid the child on the ground and was kneeling beside him.

Komatsu knelt on the other side, feeling the little legs and body.

"No break bones," he said briefly.

Miss Campbell sat on the ground by the unconscious child, wondering

vaguely if she would ever rise again.

"They may tear us to pieces before we get back. They are like an angry,

silent pack of wolves," she thought to herself. "Komatsu," she said

aloud, "I believe he has fainted from fright," She put the smelling

bottle to the baby's funny snub nose.

Presently the boy opened his eyes.

At this moment from the midst of the crowd there came a strange shrill

cry and a distracted looking woman began beating and fighting her way

toward the group.

"Honorable mother come in big hurry," said Komatsu, in a low voice.

"Gracious lady, take jinriksha. Honorable quickness best now."

"But the child isn't injured, Komatsu. Look, he's opened his eyes and

he's going to sit up. It was simply fright."

"No like honorable devil-wagon," went on Komatsu steadily.

While this low, rapid dialogue was taking place Billie, standing on the

front seat of the "Comet" on the lookout for help, saw something that

made her blood turn cold. A band of fierce looking young men in Japanese

costume was approaching on the run. The leader was brandishing a short

knife with a two-edged glittering blade and the others flourished sword

canes. Billie was thankful that Miss Campbell was too much occupied at

that moment in assuring the poor mother that her child was not injured to

notice this murderous looking company. Komatsu had quietly placed himself

beside the car, faithful soul, ready to die in the service of his ladies.

Were they all going to be cut to pieces or was only the "Comet" to be

sacrificed in revenge for the accident?

The Motor Maids exchanged frightened glances.

"If I only knew six words in Japanese," thought Billie.

"Make honorable quickness to descend, gracious lady. Come, come," Komatsu

urged. "To jinriksha. Leave red devil-wagon. This place no good for

staying in."

"Oh, Komatsu, try and reason with them," pleaded Billie. "We don't want

to lose the 'Comet,' It wasn't his fault. He was going quite slowly. He

didn't mean to hurt the little boy. He's the kindest hearted old thing.

It wasn't anybody's fault. Can't you tell them that?"

Billie was too distracted and unhappy to realize how absurd her words

might have sounded to any English-speaking person. It had always seemed

to her that a real heart beat somewhere in the mechanical organism of the

red motor. Gasoline was his life's blood and his pulse-beats were only

the throb of the engine, but, to Billie, he was a faithful and devoted

soul and she was not quite prepared to say what she would do in order to

save him from destruction.

However, at the moment that the band of young men, scarcely more than

boys any of them, reached the car, some one sprang into the machine from

the other side.

Turning quickly, Billie was confronted by a tall, slender young woman in

a white serge suit and a big black hat. She had a dark, creamy

complexion, dark eyes that slanted slightly and hair of a queer mousy

shade of brown.

"Wait," said the stranger, "I will speak to them," and mounting the seat,

she addressed the crowd in their own tongue with extraordinary fluency,

the girls thought, remembering what they had heard concerning the

difficulties of that language. There was an elegance and fascination

indescribable about the stranger. Nancy recognized her instantly as the

lady in the garden. Miss Campbell knew her as Mme. Fontaine, newspaper

correspondent. The others in the party imagined her to be almost anything

romantic and interesting; perhaps a foreign princess; a great actress;

something remarkable, surely.

In a beautiful, cultured voice, far reaching in spite of its soft tones,

she harangued the multitude which little by little fell back. The group

of fierce young men put away their weapons and disappeared in the mob.

The little boy, the cause of all the trouble, was now standing on his

feet blinking his eyes at Miss Campbell. How the picture was stamped on

their minds like a vividly colored print!

Miss Campbell took out her purse and gave the mother of the boy some

money. Being still quite ignorant of Japanese coinage she did not pause

to make any laborious calculations, but poured all the money in the purse

into the woman's outstretched hand. It must have been an undreamed-of

sum, for the mother's face was wreathed in delighted smiles. She bowed

until her forehead almost touched the ground, as did the witnesses of

this princely generosity.

"It's all over now," said Mme. Fontaine, stepping down from the seat and

smiling at Billie. "You had a bad quarter of an hour, though, I fear."

"I don't know how we can ever thank you," exclaimed Billie. "You not only

saved the car from destruction, but you may have saved us, too. There's

no telling how far they would have gone once they got started."

"No, no, they would not have harmed you, but they might have injured the

car. They are a good deal like children, but they are not butchers. I

think they admired your courage, too, for not deserting the sinking

ship."

Miss Campbell now approached and held out her hand gratefully.

"You are heaping coals of fire on my head, Mme. Fontaine," she said.

"Yesterday I refused to grant you a favor and to-day you are placing us

everlastingly in your debt."

"No, no, you must not put it that way," said the other woman, with a

graceful movement of protest. "You were quite right not to be interviewed

if you did not wish it. Some Americans do not object to publicity, you

know. One can never tell. But what I did just now any other person who

spoke both languages would have been glad to do."

The end of the episode was that Mme. Fontaine waited with Miss Campbell

and the three girls, while Billie, in the center of a curious circle of

onlookers and with the help of Komatsu, put on a new tire.

"Are you in a 'riksha?" asked Miss Campbell of their deliverer. "We would

be glad if you would let us take you back to Tokyo in the car. My young

cousin is a careful and experienced chauffeur. This is the only accident

of the sort we have ever had and I think it was entirely the fault of the

child."

"Oh, I am not in the least timid in motor cars and I accept with

pleasure," answered Mme. Fontaine quickly.

Some twenty minutes later, with Komatsu running ahead to clear the road,

the "Comet" threaded his way at a snail's pace along the Arakawa Ridge.

No doubt his mechanical organism, which Billie had endowed with a soul,

heaved a sigh of relief when they took the road home.

"Who were the young men with the knives and sword canes, Mme. Fontaine?"

asked Mary on the way back.

"Oh, they are a group of fanatical young persons opposed to foreigners.

Most of them are descendants of the samurai. They believe in old Japan.

They talk the wildest kind of nonsense, and while their beliefs are

opposed to progress, they represent in Japan what the Nihilists represent

in Russia and the Anarchists and such people in other countries. They

will outgrow it in time. Some of the finest men in Japan once belonged to

these clubs of _soshi_, as they are called. In another generation there

will be very few of them left. In the meantime they are quite dangerous

occasionally. About fifty years ago a band of them attacked the English

Legation at Takanawa and there was a fierce fight. But I feel perfectly

sure that they wouldn't attack people now. Only motor cars and the like."

"That would have been bad enough," remarked Billie, patting the wheel of

the "Comet."

Mme. Fontaine smiled pleasantly.

"After the great excitement may I not have the pleasure of offering you a

reviving cup of tea at my house? It would make me very happy."

Miss Campbell would have much preferred to go straight home, but to

decline the invitation would have seemed ungracious and she accepted

promptly.

Along the broad streets of Tokyo, under out-stretched boughs heavy with

blossoms, they rolled, and at last Billie paused as directed at a gate in

a wall behind which was a charming little house, set in the usual

beautiful garden.

If Mme. Fontaine was fascinating and elegant, so also was her home. The

drawing-room, which seemed to occupy most of the second floor, was

furnished in European fashion with deep chairs and couches, Oriental rugs

and rich hangings. There was a grand piano near the windows, and on the

walls were the rarest and most beautiful Japanese prints. It was a

blending of the East and West and was one of the most artistic and

delightful apartments the girls had ever seen. In the dim shadowy

confines they caught glimpses of teakwood cabinets in which were carved

ivories and pieces of fine porcelain. The girls would have liked well to

linger another hour among all these interesting and strange objects, but

Miss Campbell, for some reason, was in her most conventional mood. While

her manner toward Mme. Fontaine left nothing to be desired and she was

graciousness personified, she cut the call to twenty-five minutes by the

French clock on the mantel, and then go she would. As they were leaving

Mary noticed on a table near the door two splendid swords, one very large

and heavy and one with a double-edged blade of much smaller size.

"Oh, are these the swords of a samurai warrior?" she demanded, with

excited interest.

"Yes," answered Mme. Fontaine. "They belonged to my great grandfather."

Not until they were back in the "Comet" and well on the way home did they

realize the meaning of her words.

"Then," exclaimed Nancy, "she is half Japanese."

"And I've invited her to dine the day after tomorrow," Miss Campbell

remarked irrelevantly.

The adventure on Arakawa Ridge was far-reaching in its results as a

matter of fact, but the most immediate one was a severe punishment

administered by that usually kind and gentle person, Mr. Campbell, on no

less a victim than the "Comet." Just what the punishment was you will

find out when the Motor Maids themselves discover it.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE COMPASSIONATE GOD, JIZU.

Miss Campbell was very dubious about having invited Mme. Fontaine to

dine.

"Of course she was very kind," she remarked, "and we owe her a great

deal, but I wish we could show our appreciation in some other way. We

don't know anything about her: who she is; where she came from; whether

she has any family."

"But, my dear cousin," said Mr. Campbell, who had wandered about the

world so much that he was accustomed to taking people without any

questions, "what difference does it make? You say she is refined and

well-bred. We know she is kind because of what she did for us. But I will

make some inquiries about her if you like--"

"I never liked mixed bloods," interrupted Miss Campbell, not listening to

her relation.

"Everybody has some mixture of bloods," laughed Billie. "Look at

Mary--French and English; look at Elinor--Scotch and Irish."

"No, no," protested Miss Campbell "Those aren't the kinds of mixtures I

referred to. It's those queer Oriental bloods--yellow people and white

people."

The others all smiled indulgently. Miss Campbell was just a little

old-fashioned lady with old-fashioned restricted views, they thought. She

was the only one of the motor party who had not fallen under the spell of

Mme. Fontaine, and apparently the only cause for her objection was

because this charming stranger was part Japanese and wrote for the

newspapers.

That evening Mr. Campbell endeavored to set her fears at rest.

"I have inquired about your mysterious Mme. Fontaine," he said. "She is a

widow. Her husband was editor of a paper in Shanghai. She herself is a

writer and a newspaper correspondent. She has written several novels

published in Shanghai, and she is generally considered to be a very

bright person. She has been living in Tokyo not quite a year and goes out

very little."

This fragment of her history only seemed to deepen the atmosphere of

romance which enveloped the "Widow of Shanghai," as Mr. Campbell would

call her, and the Motor Maids rather eagerly awaited the evening when she

was to dine with them.

In the meantime, they were to receive a ceremonious call from the family

of Yoritomo Ito, and he himself was to act as interpreter for the three

Japanese ladies, his mother, his aunt and his sister. They appeared one

afternoon in two jinrikshas and such a bowing and smiling was never seen

before. The day had been sultry and hot and tea was served in the

summer-house in the garden by the little maids attached to the household.

Miss Campbell was sorry that the pretty Onoye, flower of the staff, did

not appear. However, these things were all left to O'Haru, and she said

nothing.

Yoritomo's sister, O'Kami San (that is to say: the honorable Miss Kami),

spoke a very little English. This fact she had bashfully hidden from the

girls on the occasion of their first meeting. But when Billie, through

Yoritomo, asked his sister to walk in the garden, she answered herself:

"Receive thanks. Honorable walk will confer pleasure."

Assuredly the Japanese-English dictionaries and phrase books must all use

the most stilted and ceremonious English words, so Billie thought.

"'Receive thanks and confer pleasure!' How absurd!"

But then Billie did not realize that the Japanese language abounds in

such ceremonious words and high-sounding phrases and, in order to keep

the spirit of the original, translations are generally literal.

Off they trooped down a garden path, followed by the reproachful eyes of

Miss Helen Campbell, who found it a decided strain on the nerves to keep

a second-hand conversation going. Nancy lingered behind and helped her

out by giving Yoritomo an account of their accident on Arakawa Ridge.

This he immediately passed on to his mother and aunt.

In the meantime, O'Kami San, trotting along beside Billie, with Mary and

Elinor following behind, might have just stepped out of a Japanese fan.

She was so entirely unreal and cunning that the girls had no eyes for the

rosy rain of cherry blossoms dropping from the trees, nor the lovely

vista of garden with its flaming bushes of azaleas and cool green clumps

of ferns. Out of compliment to the season O'Kami San wore a robe of

delicate pink embroidered all over with sprays of cherry blossoms in

deeper shades. Her obi, or sash, was of pale green silk. Her hair was

elaborately pompadoured and drawn up in the back into a large glossy roll

held in place with tortoise shell pins. No doubt it had taken hours to

arrange; two, at the very least.

Billie patted her own smooth rolls serenely.

"Suppose I had to sleep with my neck on a little wooden bench every night

to preserve my _coiffure_," she thought. "I think I'd just lay my head

on the executioner's block and say, 'Strike it off. It's not worth the

trouble.'"

"Think garden pretty, O'Kami San?" began Mary, whose method of talking

with the Japanese was to preserve only the framework of a sentence and

drop all articles and small words.

"Much pretty. Me--like honorable garden and beautiful American ladee,"

answered O'Kami, speaking slowly and distinctly.

English pronunciation never seemed to trouble the Japanese. It was only

choice of words and construction.

"What do you do all day, O'Kami San?" asked Elinor.

"Much honorable work," answered the Japanese girl. "Cook-ing; sew-ing";

she pointed to her kimono; "mu-seek; book-stu-dee. Ah, much work to

become wife."

"You are not thinking of marrying, surely? Your brother says you are only

sixteen," protested Mary.

O'Kami nodded her head and smiled.

"Arrange all the day before to this."

"Do you love him?" asked Mary, in an awed tone of voice.

O'Kami looked puzzled. The word "love" she had not learned.

"O'Kami much happy. Honorable mother of husband not any more. Gone." She

pointed up.

"Goodness!" broke in Elinor. "She means that there will be no

mother-in-law, so the marriage is sure to be a happy one. What a

mother-in-law ridden place this country is!"

She spoke too rapidly for the Japanese girl to grasp the meaning of any

word except "mother-in-law."

"Mother-in-law," she repeated slowly. "Little Japanese girl much afraid

to great mother-in-law."

The girls laughed and O'Kami's silvery note mingled with theirs.

"I found something quite new and interesting in the garden the other

day," observed Mary. "Or rather not quite new, but quite old. Who wants

to see it?"

"Lead on, Macduff," ordered Billie.

"It's an old shrine," continued Mary. "Komatsu says it's to the

Compassionate God, Jizu. He's sitting cross-legged in a little niche in

the hillside below the bridge and he has a beautiful frame of clematis

vines around him. I think he's delightful."

O'Kami San was unable to grasp the meaning of this rapid fire of words,

at least it seemed to her to be a rapid fire. Most people are under the

impression that a foreign language is spoken faster than their own. But

she trotted along beside the others, always with the same polite,

intelligent smile, as if she understood every word.

Having crossed the bridge, they followed a narrow path through a grove of

pine trees. The path took an unexpected curve to the right and led them

around the side of a grassy embankment under which sat the stone image of

the Compassionate God, Jizu. The inscrutable smile of the nation hovered

on the lips of the ancient idol, and his compassionate stone eyes looked

out upon the green little world around him with a gentle tolerance. Time

and tempests had worn away his arms and softened the outlines of his

stone countenance. He was indeed a graven image of kindly mien and of a

certain majesty of expression.

But there was, another visitor at the shrine of the Compassionate God.

She lay flat on her face in a tumbled, many-colored little heap before

the gray old image at whose feet was her offering: a pitiful little bunch

of wild roses. She had been sobbing. It was easy to tell. The storm of

weeping had passed now and she lay quite still, but at intervals there

was that catch in the breath which follows a period of bitter crying.

The three American girls paused at the edge of the miniature lawn about

the shrine and exchanged embarrassed glances. O'Kami Sail drew back a

step or two. It was their intention to creep away as noiselessly as

possible and leave the unhappy worshiper at the shrine none the wiser

that she had been observed by profane, foreign eyes. But at this moment a

temple bell not far off sent out a clear silver note in the stillness.

The bright-colored heap stirred into life and the sorrowful worshiper

rose and looked about her bewildered.

It was Onoye, as they had suspected, and Mary recalled that it was the

second time she had seen the Japanese girl crying miserably when she

thought she was alone.

Onoye tried to smile when she saw the three young ladies of the house

looking at her with great concern. She ran to Billie and fell on her

knees.

"Forgive, gracious lady," she said, endeavoring to compose her expression

to its usual tranquility.

"Why, you poor dear, what have I to forgive?" exclaimed Billie, trying to

raise Onoye to her feet.

"Why are you so unhappy, Onoye? Is there anything we can do for you?"

asked Elinor.

"Do tell us and let us help you," put in Mary.

But Onoye was silent.

"O'Kami San, will you not ask her?" said Billie. "Perhaps she would tell

you in Japanese when she can't in English."

At the words "O'Kami San," Onoye jumped to her feet in subdued

excitement.

"O'Kami San," she repeated.

The two Japanese girls confronted each other. They spoke in low, rapid

voices and their faces were so calm and unemotional they might have been

two Japanese dolls wound tip to move the lips and occasionally make a

slight gesture with one hand. Presently Onoye slipped from her _obi_ a

small package done up in crêpe paper and gave it to O'Kami, who concealed

it in the voluminous folds of her own kimono. They exchanged low,

ceremonious bows and Onoye hurried away, while O'Kami turned to the

mystified young-Americans with an apologetic smile.

"Receive excuses and pardon grant," she said.

Billie made a superhuman effort not to laugh, while Mary stooped to break

off a spray of azaleas and Elinor examined intently a stunted pine tree

planted in a big green jar near the path.

Japanese gardeners are very fond of cultivating these dwarf trees. Some

of the tiniest are said to be of great age. The arrested development

contorts the venerable branches into strange twisted forms but they put

forth blossoms and foliage with systematic dignity.

"What is the matter with our little maid? Were you able to find out?"

Billie asked the visitor.

But O'Kami San was not inclined to be communicative, and they were

obliged to return to the summer-house with their curiosity entirely

unsatisfied. In the meantime, Miss Campbell and Nancy were in a painful

state of embarrassment about what to say next. The conversation had come

to a dead stop, while Miss Campbell, with a flushed face, raised her eyes

to heaven with a prayerful look and Nancy endeavored to say a few words

about the weather. Yoritomo was inclined to be silent, too. He kept his

eyes on the floor and only raised them to transmit Miss Campbell's

remarks to his mother and aunt.

"Will you ask your mother, Mr. Ito, if--she suffers from rheumatism from

sitting on the floor so much?" asked Miss Campbell, groaning mentally and

sending up a prayer that the visitors would see fit to bring the visit to

an immediate end.

There was a short colloquy between mother and son, during which Mme. Ito

smiled blandly and waved her fan to and fro.

"No, Madam, my mother does not have that complaint," answered her son in

precise English.

Miss Campbell flashed a glance of black reproach at Nancy, as much as to

say:

"It's your turn now, ungrateful girl. Speak, for heaven's sake."

Nancy exchanged a hopeless glance with the distracted lady. Then she

remarked:

"Mr. Ito, is your aunt married?"

Yoritomo smiled broadly.

"She is a widow," he replied. "In Japan all widows cut their hair short."

"But what a strange custom," objected Nancy. "That would keep them from

ever marrying a second time. I'm sure I should never cut my hair if my

husband died. I should use hair tonic to make it grow longer and

thicker."

Yoritomo laughed outright and communicated Nancy's views to his

relatives. They laughed, too, and contemplated her knot of chestnut curls

with much admiration.

There came another uncomfortable pause. Two simultaneous winged prayers

went up into the ether and relief was granted in an unexpected and

startling guise. Billie and her friends had just returned and tea and

refreshments of a light volatile nature were being passed for the fourth

time, by order of Miss Campbell. The visitors were elaborately declining

all further nourishment when Nancy saw an arm raised from behind a thick

clump of shrubbery near the summer-house. It was clothed in nondescript

brown and long fingers clutched a stone. The arm gave a swift circular

movement, as if to gain impetus. Then it went backward with a movement of

a pitcher about to throw a ball.

"Yoritomo," shrieked Nancy, for the stone seemed to be aimed straight at

his head.

In the fraction of an instant the young Japanese had ducked and the stone

had crashed into the summer-house and fallen at his feet, making a dent

in the floor.

Undoubtedly Nancy had saved his life.

"Oh, oh, oh!" cried Miss Campbell, but Mme. Ito and her sister and

daughter were perfectly calm and silent, as were also the Japanese maids,

gathered in a frightened group behind them.

"I never saw people take on so little," Miss Campbell observed later,

describing the incident to her cousin.

Nancy wept softly. It was never very difficult for her to weep and she

emerged from one of these gentle paroxysms--even as the flowers after

a summer rain--a little dewy but refreshed.

Yoritomo vaulted over the rail of the summer-house and ran in the

direction of the group of shrubbery. But, of course, no one was there.

Who could expect an assassin to wait and be caught?

"I think we had better get into the house at once," ordered Miss

Campbell, and taking Mme. Ito's arm, she hurried the little lady up the

path, calling to the others to follow. Once in the drawing-room, all the

windows were ordered closed and the doors locked, while Komatsu was sent

to search the premises.

"What is your opinion, Mr. Ito?" asked Billie. "Was it an enemy of yours

or some one who wanted to exterminate us because we are foreigners?"

But Yoritomo could not enlighten her.

"I cannot say," was all they could get out of him.

He was only deeply chagrined, as was his mother, that the American ladies

should have been subjected to such treatment in Japan.

The Campbell party finally arrived at the conclusion that it was an

insane person, and Mr. Campbell immediately engaged a day and night

watchman and reported the matter to the police.

CHAPTER IX.

A BIRTHDAY PARTY.

It so happened that the dinner to Mme. Fontaine became a triple

celebration. Billie recalled that it was her father's birthday, for one

thing.

"He's forgotten it himself," she said. "He never did remember that he was

entitled to a birthday."

Furthermore, it was the occasion always of great rejoicing in Japan,

being the fifth day of the fifth month on which the Boys' Festival--_O

Sekku_, as it is called there--is celebrated.

"Think of my sweet old boy being born on this lucky day!" cried Billie.

"Why can't we give him a real Japanese surprise party, Cousin Helen, and

invite those nice men to come? Mr. Ito will tell us what to do."

When Mr. Campbell departed for Tokyo that lovely morning on the fifth of

May he had no idea of the plans that were hatching in his home. Scarcely

had his 'riksha disappeared down the road, when the entire household

became actively busy. Komatsu made a hurried visit to town, bearing notes

of invitation to the few acquaintances of the Campbells and returned

later in the day accompanied by two men carrying large bales on their

backs. That evening when the master of the house returned in time to

dress for dinner he scarcely recognized his abode, which had been

decorated in a most extraordinary manner.

Across the front of the house on long poles were at least six enormous

paper carp, which rose and fell and became realistically inflated with

every passing breeze. Very fantastic they appeared with their gaping

mouths, their enormous bulging eyes and fins and their scales shining in

the sunlight.

The carp, it must be known, is the sacred emblem of the male child in

Japan. It also signifies courage, endurance and other admirable though

not exclusively masculine qualities. This valiant fish can accomplish the

difficult feat of swimming up the rapids, even as a brave youth must

conquer difficulties and surmount obstacles. His name is synonymous with

perseverance and fortitude. The fifth of May is every boy's birthday in

Japan, no matter what his real birthday is, and on that day a feast is

kept in every home, rich or poor, where there is a son.

"I suppose, because we have only one son in our house, we are entitled to

only one carp," observed Billie, "but I think our nice old boy is good

enough for us to string up twenty carp."

This statement was unanimously acceded to by all persons connected with

the feast.

All the afternoon the girls had worked over the decorations. The garden

was strung with lanterns much more beautiful and artistic in design than

any that ever reach America; and the house, under the supervision of

Onoye and her mother, was made beautiful with the splendid iris in all

its varying shades from deep purple to pale mauve. Among their long,

slender, delicate leaves the flowers seemed to be growing in the shallow

dishes in which devices of soft lead held them in place.

"Are we entertaining a family of sons this evening or have we just

decided to celebrate whether we have sons or not?" asked Mr. Campbell,

greeting his daughter on the piazza.

"We are entertaining for our only son, the most promising and delightful

young man in the entire universe," answered Billie, kissing him.

"I always thought you were a singularly fortunate young man, Duncan,"

remarked Miss Campbell, "but I shall no longer attribute it entirely to

industry, intelligence and good looks."

"What's the reason, then, Cousin Helen?" asked Mr. Campbell, laughing.

"Why, have you forgotten, boy, that this is your birthday? Forty-five

years old, and you don't remember it!"

"I did forget it," said Mr. Campbell, "but I don't see where the luck

comes in."

They explained the meaning of the Boys' Festival and the lucky

coincidence that had brought him into the world on that auspicious day.

"Go in now and get dressed, for the Widow of Shanghai will be arriving

pretty soon and other company besides," ordered Billie.

The girls had dressed early and their pretty summer frocks gleamed softly

against the green of the shrubbery as they flitted about the garden and

the lawn in the twilight. Nancy was wearing her first train that night;

it was only a wee bit of a train, nothing regal and sweeping; but it gave

her a secret thrill to throw it over one arm, displaying her lace trimmed

petticoat underneath, while she tripped along the garden path. The dress

was of pink batiste and delicate lace, and from the round neck her throat

rose soft and white like a column. She was the first of the four friends

to wear a train. Even Elinor, tall and slender in her white lingerie

frock, had not aspired to that dignity. Billie was wearing her best blue

mulle that became her mightily because it was near the shade of her

blue-gray eyes, and little Mary was dressed in one of the dainty muslin

frocks that her mother excelled in making.

"They are no longer little girls," thought Miss Campbell, rather sadly,

it must be confessed. She was sitting in a long-chair on the piazza

watching her four charges flit about the lawn. "They are almost young

ladies now, and how pretty they are, too; each is so different from the

other and each charming in her own way. Billie, I think, is too much of a

tomboy to worry about yet. Elinor is far too dignified; Mary is too shy.

But I feel I shall have to keep a sharp eye on Nancy. Those blue eyes of

hers are simply wells of coquetry. I believe the child would flirt with a

stone. I doubt if half the time she realizes herself how eloquent she can

make them. Little mischief!"

The little lady smiled indulgently, recalling her own blue eyes and the

mischief they had been known to stir up.

"And now this Widow from Shanghai comes and breaks in on us," her

thoughts proceeded irrelevantly. "I don't in the least wish to cultivate

her friendship, but I know her kind. Once she gets her foot in the door

there'll be no shaking her off."

As a matter of fact, Miss Helen Campbell, spinster, was never very

enthusiastic about widows.

"I don't care for them," she used to say. "They are a knowing, designing

lot."

Once when she was asked by a missionary society in West Haven to

contribute to a fund for the widows in India, to induce them not to mount

their husbands' funeral pyres and permit themselves to be consumed by

mortuary flames, Miss Campbell indignantly refused.

"I am sure, if they are so foolish, that's much the best place for them,"

she announced. "I prefer to give my money for more worthy causes."

And now a widow, who, far from having mounted any funeral pyre, appeared

to enjoy life immensely, had placed them under obligations.

"She is a slant-eyed widow with a yellow skin," Miss Campbell thought

uncharitably, "and her hair that ought to be dark is light. Of course

that isn't her fault and neither is her peculiar complexion nor her slant

eyes, but I do wish she were one thing or the other and not half and

half."

Of course all these inhospitable and unfriendly notions the little lady

was careful to keep to herself. When presently the Widow of Shanghai

rode up in a 'riksha and was helped to alight by three maids at once,

Miss Campbell was all graciousness and affability.

Mme. Fontaine wore a beautiful white embroidered crêpe dinner dress. Her

figure was so slender Miss Campbell feared it might sway and bend with

the least breath of wind. Her curious fluffy hair was arranged on top of

her head and her only ornament was a string of small pearls wound twice

around her throat. They were very beautiful pearls, each one perfect to

the casual eye.

"But then, who can tell the real from the unreal nowadays," thought Miss

Campbell, regarding the jewels critically. "They might be imitation,

every one of them."

"Reggie" Carlton, as he came to be known to the girls, and Nicholas Grimm

soon followed the widow, and after them came Mr. Buxton. Yoritomo could

not appear that evening, because of the celebration in his own home where

he must remain and share in the family feast.

Mme. Fontaine was reserved almost to the point of shyness with the four

men of the party, whom she now met for the first time. But she drew the

girls around her by a kind of irresistible attraction. Billie found

herself talking as freely as she talked with her three friends. The widow

had a curiously sympathetic way of listening that provoked confidences.

There was a good deal of friendly rivalry among the Motor Maids for her

society. They took turns sitting by her side during the half hour before

dinner was announced; but Nancy felt a certain superiority over the

others. Was she not bound by a secret tie to this fascinating person

because of their chance meeting in the garden in the rain?

"These four girls of mine seem to have acquired a monopoly over you, Mme.

Fontaine," observed Mr. Campbell, just returned from a short conference

with Mr. Buxton in the library. "They don't give the rest of us half a

chance. They have fenced you around as if you were a sacred image of

Buddha."

"I feel that they have paid me a great compliment," answered the widow,

smiling, "To a lonely woman the friendship of four charming young girls

is very sweet."

Mr. Campbell somehow felt extremely sorry for this lonely lady. Mr.

Buxton also was touched with commiseration, and the younger men, too,

were moved to cast glances of sympathy in her direction.

For the first time in her life Miss Campbell experienced the same

sensation a young girl feels when she is left sitting against the wall at

a dance while her friends are being whirled about. At first she thought

the sensation was a touch of indigestion which frequently brings with it,

its near relative, depression. But when the circle closed in around the

Widow of Shanghai, and Helen Campbell, spinster, of America, was left

sitting quite alone to contemplate the view, she decided that it was not

indigestion nor any of its ramifications that ailed her. What the

sensation was she could not name, but she felt a profound and entirely

human irritation with the Widow of Shanghai and her ingratiating methods.

Fortunately dinner was announced and on the arm of Mr. Buxton she led the

way to the dining room with the air of an exiled queen.

Billie was very anxious about the success of her father's birthday

dinner. She had herself assisted in decorating the table, and had

insisted on placing a crystal bowl of goldfish in the center, although

O'Haru had told her that goldfish were not carp, and therefore had no

significance whatever with the day.

However, Onoye had caught the idea at once and had carried it out

charmingly. Hiding behind the screen, where she could see without being

seen, her heart warmed with joy when she heard the exclamations of the

guests. The center of the table was arranged to resemble a little lake.

The shallow bowl of goldfish was placed on a flat round mirror, on the

edge of which nodded groups of iris and their sword-like leaves planted

in shallow green dishes; pebbles and water grasses hid the perforations

which held them in place. Two little boats sailed on the lake, and at one

side was a miniature grotto formed of rocks and moss, and spanned by a

little bridge.

"Isn't it cunning?" asked Billie proudly, "and isn't Onoye clever to have

carried out the scheme so perfectly?"

"She is, indeed," assented Miss Campbell, feeling suddenly glad to praise

some one to counteract the unusual sensations that had possessed her a

moment before.

"It is a part of every Japanese girl's education to learn the art of

arranging flowers," said Mme. Fontaine. "She is taught that, just as

girls in other countries are taught music and languages. It often takes

several hours to arrange a group of flowers. The object is, you see, to

make them look as natural as possible in the vase."

"It is a pretty accomplishment," said Miss Campbell, "but I doubt if any

American girl would have the patience to learn it. Can you imagine,

Billie, spending two hours arranging three lilies in a bowl to make them

look as if they had grown there?"

"No, I can't," laughed Billie, "but I have spent two hours many times on

my back under the 'Comet' trying to find a loose screw."

"If I had a wife--" here Nicholas remarked and paused because everybody

laughed.

"Well, if you had one, what would you do with her? Beat her?" asked Mr.

Buxton.

"Do I look like a wife beater?" demanded Nicholas indignantly. "No. I was

going to say I'd rather she would know about loose screws in machinery

than how to arrange flowers."

"You speak as if marriage was one long motor trip, my boy," observed Mr.

Campbell.

"And, surely," put in Miss Campbell, "if the machinery broke down, you

wouldn't compel your wife to repair it?"

"I am afraid very few girls would be eligible for your wife, Mr. Grimm,"

remarked Mme. Fontaine.

As for Billie, she said nothing at all, but glanced down at her plate,

because Nicholas looked straight at her and then burst out with:

"Don't jump on me, everybody, with both feet. I only meant that it's a

jolly fine girl who can--er--who--knows--"

He broke down in confusion.

"You mean that a young lady chauffeur would make an excellent wife?"

laughed Mr. Campbell.

"Spare his blushes," put in Reggie, and then the talk shifted to other

subjects.

It is customary in Japan on the day of the Boys' Festival to tell stories

of the heroes of the country, and after dinner when they had gathered in

the lantern-hung summer-house for coffee, Mme. Fontaine, urged by the

girls, recounted an incident in the life of Yamato, or O'Osu, as he was

then known. He was the son of the Emperor Keiko, and when a mere slip of

a boy was sent by his father to slay two fierce robbers who had been

spreading terror through the country. O'Osu gladly undertook the affair

and since the outlaws were giants and he just a boy, he devised a cunning

scheme to outwit the terrible brigands. He was slender and small and his

hair still long, so that in the gorgeous clothes of a dancing girl no one

would ever have guessed he was a brave and reckless young prince.

One night when the robbers were feasting in their cave after pillaging

the country for miles around, the beautiful dancing girl appeared before

them like a vision. She charmed them with her songs and dances and then

suddenly she whipped out a sharp sword and slew the nearest robber. As

the other fled terror-stricken to the entrance of the cave, she thrust

him in the back and he fell to the ground.

"'Pause, oh Prince, for prince thou surely art,' he gasped. 'But why hast

thou done this deed?'

"And the prince, standing over him with the dripping sword, said:

"'I am O'Osu, messenger of the Emperor and avenger of evil.'

"'Then,' said the dying robber, 'thou shalt have a new name. Until this

hour my brother and I have been called the bravest men in the West. To

thee, august boy, I bequeath the title. Let men call thee the bravest in

Yamato.'

"From that day O'Osu was called 'Yamato Take,' and never did he wrong the

name."

Mary sighed when Mme. Fontaine had finished the story. She yearned for

the gift of language and the power to chain the attention of a circle of

people. How had she done it, this mysterious foreigner who could handle

the English language even better than English people? Her words were

simple and gestures she used almost none. It was her voice, Mary thought.

There was an undercurrent of dramatic power in it, like a subterranean

river. It could only be guessed at, but it was there, powerful and deep.

Even Miss Campbell, unreasonably prejudiced, felt the undercurrent.

"That is a charming story," she observed. "I suppose Japan is filled with

many romantic stories of that sort."

"Hundreds of them," answered the widow. "Volumes and volumes could be

written about them and still the half not be told."

"And you know many of them, I suppose?" asked Billie.

"Oh, yes. One could not live in Japan without studying her history, so

filled with romances and legends of heroic deeds. It is fascinating, I

assure you, and furnishes no end of subjects for decorations from a

picture on a fan to the masterpiece of a great artist."

There was a moment's silence in the company of which Mme. Fontaine

certainly seemed the center. She looked suddenly very Japanese. Against

the white of her dress her soft skin gleamed like polished old ivory. Her

eyes were darker and more noticeably slanting than ever before. If she

only had had dark hair! What country had given her those strangely

incongruous locks?

And now it was proposed that they should wander in the garden, and off

they started by various paths and bypaths all leading eventually to the

little curved bridge at the far end, where Nancy had hung two large

yellow lanterns on the ends of supple willow wands.

The Widow of Shanghai walked between Billie and Mr. Campbell, but she had

little to say. The moon, swinging over them like another yellow lantern,

had glorified the garden into a little earthly paradise. It seemed

somehow inappropriate to speak above a whisper in the midst of so much

exquisite beauty. The wisteria had opened up during the day and now hung

in magnificent purple clusters from an arbor across the main walk.

From the servants' quarters came the tinkle of the samisen, and a breeze

laden with the scent of flowers brought with it also the distant sound of

voices and laughter.

Nicholas Grimm had joined Billie, and the two young people now lingered

in the arbor. In the curve of a path they caught an occasional glimpse

of a white dress. The music of Nancy's laugh came to them mingled with

Mary's high, sweet note. Gradually the voices died away. The garden

seemed to be under a spell. Billie, sitting beside Nicholas in the arbor,

waited breathlessly. Then at last in the stillness there burst forth such

a stream of full-throated singing as had never been heard.

"It's a nightingale," whispered Nicholas.

Billie felt that she would like very much to cry. Nothing had ever

stirred her as this flood of melody which seemed to have been turned on

for their especial benefit. While they listened, there came the sound of

three pistol shots in quick succession and a cry. Was it an English cry

for help?

Instantly Nicholas was on his feet.

"You had better stay here," he said. "I'll run and see what has

happened."

Before Billie could reply, Nancy dashed up.

"We are all to go into the house," she said. "Someone has shot a pistol

in the far end of the garden. The men have gone down there."

Billie considered the situation for a moment. Certainly neither her

father nor his three guests were armed. Would it not be a good precaution

to go to the library and get her father's pistol? It was merely an

impulse, and she could hardly explain it later, but she obeyed it.

"It's nothing serious, Mr. Buxton says. Probably someone who has been

celebrating has wandered into the garden, but we had better wait for

them in the house," Billie heard Miss Campbell remark, as she ran along

the path to the side entrance.

CHAPTER X.

IN THE DARK.

The impulse that had moved Billie to run ahead of her friends and dash

into the library for her father's pistol carried her so fast, indeed,

that she was in the room with the door closed behind her before she

realized what she was doing. It was perfectly dark there. Not even the

brilliant moonlight outside penetrated through the heavy curtains drawn

for the night.

"There are always matches on the desk," she thought, remembering that her

father usually smoked while he worked over his papers.

With her hand still on the doorknob she turned and faced the desk without

moving a step. Why was she so frightened? It was absurd. Her father would

be ashamed of her for being afraid of the dark. Giving herself a little

impatient shake, she took two steps in front of her, groping with her

hands like a blind person for obstacles in the way.

She stopped short and listened. Every nerve in her body was tingling and

she felt she was trembling. For half a minute she hardly breathed. Then

she resolutely began her march in the dark. At last the desk was reached

and her hand was on the green china match holder. She stood for a moment

irresolute. The pistol was in the lower left-hand desk drawer. She knew

exactly where it was. Her father had shown it to her only the other day.

"I think you had better know where I keep it," he had said, "not that you

will ever need to use it, I hope, because either Komatsu or I shall

always be here to protect you, but just as a matter of precaution."

Again she reached for the match holder, but it was empty. Softly opening

the drawer, she felt in the back until her fingers grasped the pistol.

Carefully she drew it out and transferred it from her right hand to her

left. There was an unacknowledged relief in Billie's heart that there

were no matches. She felt she would rather get out of the library in the

dark than make any investigations with a match. Once in the hall she

would decide what to do.

She was morally certain now that someone else was in the room. She could

see nothing, hear nothing, but in the dark she felt the presence of

another human being. She recalled Nancy's experience.

"Perhaps it wasn't her imagination, after all," she thought.

The thing was to get back to the door and out of it. Billie wished with

all her soul she had never come in at all. It had been a reckless, silly

notion. Why should her father need a pistol? After all, it was just some

roisterer on his way home from the festival. She had heard that _sake_,

the Japanese brandy, made the men who drank it wild, no doubt wild enough

to shoot off a pistol in the suburbs where there were no policemen about

to interfere.

And all because she had heard this pistol shot, she had obeyed a foolish

impulse to find her father's pistol. How reckless! How foolhardy! How

stupid! Because, to come right down to a fine point, here she was shut up

in a perfectly huge room, as black as the pit, with--someone else!

Never in all her experience had Billie been so frightened. Her knees

knocked together and her head was quite giddy as she made her way

unsteadily toward the door, still with the pistol in her left hand.

But she seemed to have lost all sense of direction. Groping with her

right hand, she encountered a chair. There had been no chairs in the

way before,--was it an hour ago or only a minute?

It would be better to get to the wall and feel her way along the shelves

until she reached the door.

Why was she so panic-stricken? After all was she so sure about that other

person crouching somewhere--anywhere?

Then the thing happened that she had known was going to happen all the

time.

Reaching out in the dark, she encountered an arm. Instantly her right

hand was seized in a grip of steel. There was a struggle. She was

thrown to the floor; a shot; a cry--was it her own or another person's

voice? Then absolute silence.

When Billie came back to consciousness, she was lying on a couch in the

library. Miss Helen was kneeling beside her with the smelling salts.

Mary was bathing her forehead with cold water and her father was chafing

her wrists and saying in a low voice:

"You are not hurt, are you, Billie-girl? There, speak to father. Are you

all right?"

There seemed to be a great many other people scattered about the room,

the guests and the servants and her own particular friends leaning over

her anxiously.

"I hope I didn't kill him?" she said weakly.

Mr. Campbell could not refrain from smiling.

"You are just a little girl after all, Billie," he said. "No, you didn't

kill him, but you hit him. Look at that." He pointed to some blood spots

on the rug. "You certainly winged him, whoever he was. In some way, he

escaped. I don't know how, because we were in the hall when the shot was

fired and the windows are still locked. He may have got out through the

servants' quarters but that would have been difficult, too, without

being seen."

Billie sat up.

"I'm all right now," she said. "It was only fright because I lost my way

in the dark and couldn't find the door, and it was so ghastly running

into another person in the blackness like that. Father, I wish you would

tell them not to put out the lights in this room so early. It's the

second time it's happened now."

"O'Haru, you hear what the lady says," said Mr. Campbell half humorously.

Billie, knowing her father as she did, was suddenly aware that he was

trying to make light of the affair for the benefit of the others in the

room. That the episode was far more serious than he cared to admit, she

knew perfectly well.

O'Haru left the doorway where she had been standing and came over to the

group by the couch.

"What was the honorable wish of the young lady?"

"Not to have the lights in the library put out so early in the evening.

To wait until bedtime at least."

O'Haru disliked to contradict, but the august young lady was honorably

mistaken. The lights had never been put out by any servant attached to

the household. She herself, or her daughter, attended to that after the

honorable family had retired for the night.

"Never mind," said Mr. Campbell in a soothing voice, indicating to Billie

by a slight shake of the head that he would be glad if she would let the

matter drop. Billie nodded. There was perfect understanding between the

father and the daughter.

"How do you feel now, Miss Billie?" asked Nicholas Grimm coming to the

foot of the couch.

"I'm all right again. I am ashamed of having been such a coward. If it

had been daylight I shouldn't have been half so frightened."

"I feel that it was all my fault for running off and leaving you alone. I

should have seen you to the house at least."

"Nonsense," said Billie. "That wouldn't have altered matters in the

least. I would have come back here just the same for the pistol. You see

I had a feeling that Papa might need it. Besides, we were all alone here.

There were no men--"

"I am only glad it was someone else that was shot and not you, my darling

child," broke in Miss Campbell tremulously. "Duncan, I do wish you

wouldn't keep pistols lying around the house. They are so dangerous."

"But I don't, Cousin. It was carefully stored in the back compartment of

a bottom desk drawer. If this reckless young relative of ours would go

and dig it out, I'm sure it's not my fault."

"I'm sure I can't imagine why you treat the matter as such a joke," Miss

Campbell was saying, when Mme. Fontaine swept into the room.

Her face was whiter than the long white wrap that enveloped her.

"I am so glad you were not injured," she said standing beside Billie.

"You must thank Mme. Fontaine, Billie. It was she who found you first.

The rest of us were not certain in which room the shot was fired. I

thought it was in the kitchen."

"Oh," said Billie, turning to the widow. "Were you the first person on

the scene? You couldn't have seen much, it was so dark. How did you know

I was here? I don't suppose the robber made any noise."

"It was very dark. I should not have known, if--if I had not smelt the

smoke of the powder."

"I thought perhaps you were going to say you heard the robber groan,"

went on Billie. "You see I hit him. I think I must have a pretty good

natural aim to shoot with the left hand in the dark and not fire wide of

the mark. But I don't think he was very badly hurt. He got away so fast.

I just winged him, I suppose."

"How do you know you shot him?" asked Mme. Fontaine.

Miss Helen pointed dramatically to the blood stains on the floor.

Suddenly the widow's lips turned quite white and a blue line appeared

around her mouth. She swayed slightly and Mr. Campbell caught her. Billie

was on her feet in a moment and they laid her on the couch.

"Unfasten her wrap," ordered Miss Campbell.

"No, no," said Mme. Fontaine in a very weak, thin voice. "The sight of

blood--" she closed her eyes. "I shall be all right in a moment." Beads

of perspiration appeared on her forehead and she shivered with a chill.

"I think Mme. Fontaine had better stay here to-night. She's too ill to

get back to town," said Mr. Campbell.

"Oh, do," echoed the girls, and Miss Campbell added hospitably:

"We shall be so glad."

"I am quite well now," said the widow rising unsteadily to her feet. "You

will forgive me, I hope. It is a faintness that comes to me at the sight

of blood. Will you call my 'riksha now, Mr. Campbell? I must be going. I

won't try to shake hands," she added, reaching the door. "I am still so

light in the head, I am afraid of the effort. But I want to thank you for

a delightful evening. I am only sorry it ended so disastrously."

Making a ceremonious Oriental bow to Miss Campbell and smiling and

nodding to the others, she left the room followed by Mr. Campbell and

the four girls.

"No one has told me yet what the shots were in the garden," announced

Billie after the widow had departed.

"There was nothing to tell. We never found anything at all," answered

Nicholas.

The next morning Mr. Campbell engaged another night watchman. His duty

was to patrol the inside of the house, making his rounds every hour

through the halls and living rooms. Between times he sat in the library.

CHAPTER XL

THE COMET DISGUISED.

"Where is Onoye, O'Haru?" Miss Campbell asked, a few days after the

excitement in the library.

"Honorable Madam, Onoye much business."

To Miss Campbell, a seasoned housekeeper, this reply seemed a little

irregular.

"What kind of business, O'Haru?" she demanded rather severely.

O'Haru looked amiably sad. It is true that Onoye was on the pay roll of

the household servants, but then, did not her mother do work for two when

Onoye was not actively engaged? The Japanese reasons thus: if the work is

done properly, it is of no consequence who does it. Certainly the

machinery of the household moved on without a hitch. There was no cause

for complaint, but it seemed to Miss Campbell that if Onoye received

wages she should appear about the house. Her position, which was

practically that of ladies' maid, had been filled by one of the other

small maids while O'Haru had covered up that vacancy by her own redoubled

labors.

"Will you send Onoye to me, please," ordered Miss Campbell. "I have some

sewing for her to do."

Poor O'Haru bowed. Her face looked wan and sad and it seemed to the Motor

Maids that Miss Campbell might not have been so severe; but as a

housekeeper, that small, gentle lady was a disciplinarian.

They waited with some curiosity for Onoye to appear. In five minutes

O'Sudzu, one of the other maids, stood framed in the doorway like a

Japanese souvenir post card life size. She bowed low and entered the room

timidly.

"But I sent for Onoye," exclaimed Miss Campbell.

O'Sudzu only smiled. She spoke no English.

"Onoye. Wish Onoye," repeated Miss Campbell. She pointed to the door.

O'Sudzu departed.

O'Matsu appeared next, and after O'Matsu came O'Kiku, who was followed

presently by Masako, until these successive apparitions of Japanese maids

became positively bewildering. The girls were consumed with the giggles

and Miss Campbell was scarcely able to maintain a serious expression.

"No, no!" she would say each time, "Onoye! Wish Onoye!"

At last O'Haru appeared once more.

"August one, much kindness bestow. O'Haru make sewing."

"Where is Onoye? Where is your daughter?" demanded Miss Campbell.

O'Haru on her knees hung her head humbly.

"I think I know what's the matter," put in Mary. "Onoye is ill. I am sure

it must be that."

"Is there anything the matter with Onoye?" asked Miss Campbell, but

apparently O'Haru's English did not extend so far.

"Much sickness?" asked Billie.

O'Haru's head sank lower and lower.

"Poor thing," exclaimed Mary. "Onoye is ill, Miss Campbell, and O'Haru is

afraid to say so."

"You must not be afraid, O'Haru. If little daughter ill, we take care of

her. Bring doctor. See?"

"No, no, Onoye better. Onoye soon well," said the woman in a low voice.

"Ask much pardons, gracious lady."

"Can't we see her?" asked Billie.

"Onoye see no one. Onoye only humble servant"

"Nonsense, she might be very ill," put in Miss Campbell. "I'll go with

you now, O'Haru. Lead the way."

The housekeeper gave a sigh of patient resignation and rose to her feet.

Miss Campbell and the girls followed her down the long hall and across

the passage to the servants' quarters.

At last they came to a small room at the end of the house. The floor was

covered with the usual wicker mats. The _shoji_, or sliding partitions,

were drawn together, and in the dim mellow light which filtered through

these opaque walls they saw Onoye. She was stretched on the mat which is

the usual Japanese bed, her neck on the uncomfortable little pillow

bench. With a murmur of surprise and apology, she pulled herself weakly

to her knees and touched her forehead to the floor.

"Pardon, gracious lady," she said, drawing her kimono closely about her.

"But, child, we didn't know you were so ill," said Miss Campbell, gently

forcing the girl to lie down on her bed. "Has the doctor seen you?"

"Yes, gracious lady"

"What is the matter with you?"

Onoye shook her head.

"Not say it in English." She touched her forehead. "Muchly fire."

"It's fever, of course," said Miss Campbell, kneeling beside the sick

girl and feeling her forehead. "I think you had better not stay here,

children. It might be something contagious."

"Nonsense," thought Billie; but Miss Campbell was in one of her

compelling humors and they retreated obediently, leaving her to hold a

conference with O'Haru and to see that everything was done that could be

done to alleviate Onoye's sufferings. She finally departed, after

satisfying herself that Onoye was in the toils of a bilious attack. But

she did not administer calomel as she would have done in ordinary cases

of torpid liver. "I suppose the doctor knows what he is about," she said,

"and there must be a Japanese equivalent to calomel in a country where it

rains eternally."

It was decided that they should take the "Comet" out after lunch. Miss

Campbell wished to visit an apothecary shop and there were other plans

for sight-seeing,--perhaps the magnificent Shiba Temple and the wisteria

in the park. But before they were to go, there were two surprises in

store, one for Billie alone and one for all of them. Just after luncheon

while the others were dressing for the trip, Billie, who needed about two

minutes for pinning on her hat and slipping on her coat, went back to the

stable to take the "Comet" from his garage. On the way, she passed the

room occupied by O'Haru and her daughter. Not having the least fear of

contagion, she entered a back passage of the intricate house, which

reminded her of the houses she used to build with cards as a child.

Pushing back the partition she marched into Onoye's room without

announcing herself.

"There's nothing to knock on, so why knock?" she thought.

Billie surprised the little Japanese girl sitting up examining her arm,

which was wrapped in bandages.

"Why, Onoye, I didn't know you had been injured," she exclaimed, running

over and kneeling beside the sick girl.

Onoye was speechless. She tried to cover her arm with the sleeve of her

kimono and to apologize and bow all at the same time.

"Not muchly badly," she said at last in a low voice.

"But how did it happen?"

"Not nothing. Pardon grant," murmured Onoye.

"Of course, you poor dear, but how did you injure yourself?"

She laid the bandaged wrist gently on the palm of her hand and looked at

it.

"Poor small accident," said Onoye.

"But why was it?"

The two girls looked at each other silently.

"Was it in the library that night?" asked Billie after a long pause.

Onoye's head drooped more and more.

"Poor little thing. Poor child," exclaimed Billie, consumed with pity and

remorse, since it had been her own carelessness that had caused the poor

small accident.

Onoye had doubtless put out the lights and when she, Billie, had crept

into the room like a thief, the Japanese girl was frightened and hid

herself behind a chair. Then when they had collided, they had both lost

their heads and the pistol had gone off. In spite of her remorse, Billie

was immensely relieved.

"Papa will be, too," she thought. "It had much better be Onoye than a

robber."

And Mr. Campbell was decidedly relieved when he heard the story from his

daughter that night.

"I'll keep it a secret, Onoye, dear," said Billie, moved by compassion.

"I'll only tell Papa. I am so sorry I shot you. It must have hurt

terribly."

Onoye tried to smile.

"Forgiveness grant," she murmured again.

"I think I'd better say 'forgiveness grant,'" said Billie. "But I must be

going now." She patted Onoye on the cheek and then tiptoed out of the

room. "It is a relief," she thought, turning her footsteps toward the

garage.

Some minutes later, Billie ran into her cousin's room breathlessly.

"Ready in one moment," called Miss Campbell, who had heard the whir of

the motor at the door.

"I want to prepare you for a surprise," said Billie solemnly. "I don't

mind telling you that I have had the shock of my life."

"But what is it?" they all demanded in one voice.

"I'll only say this much. Papa has punished the 'Comet' for running over

the child that day."

"How?"

"You'll see. I thought I had better prepare you. The shock might have

killed you if I hadn't."

"Goodness gracious me, what is it?" cried Miss Campbell, seizing her

reticule and gloves and rushing into the hall, followed by the others.

When she reached the piazza, she sat down flat in a chair and gasped.

There was the "Comet," to be sure. His outlines were as familiar as the

profile of a beloved brother, but his beautiful scarlet coat had been

taken from him and he wore instead a quiet covering of dark blue. The

luxurious red cushions were covered with buff linen. One small decoration

had been conceded by Mr. Campbell. The dark, quietly colored coat was

relieved on each side by the buff-colored initials, "M-M" lovingly

intertwined.

"I suppose Papa thought the red coat was too gaudy," said Billie, who was

indeed just a little tearful over the loss of that cheerful and familiar

scarlet dress which would never again flash along the highways like a

scarlet bird. "But he's the same old 'Comet' inside," she added hastily.

"You couldn't change his noble disposition if you painted him sea green."

"I think he looks beautiful," put in Elinor. "He's so neat and elegant in

buff and blue. It's like a livery."

The other girls laughed because Elinor's speech was so characteristic.

"Oh, you regal young person," exclaimed Nancy. "Your imagination doesn't

stop at anything short of liveried retinues of servants. There is no

doubt you were a royal princess in a previous existence. And suppose you

are a fat old pug in another life, like Nedda!"

"I am sure Nedda is waited on hand and foot," cried Elinor. "She has a

maid who follows her around with a cushion and a silk cover."

Komatsu, standing at the side of the motor, grinned with amusement.

"They are foolish children, aren't they, Komatsu?" observed Miss

Campbell, climbing into her accustomed seat.

Nedda, hearing her name mentioned, wobbled on her uncertain old legs to

the edge of the piazza and whined piteously.

"Go back to your mat, you pathetic, pampered old great grandmother,"

called Nancy.

The aged animal turned obediently and curled herself on her cushion. Then

she lifted her wrinkled, snub-nosed face to watch the departing

motorists.

"She does look like our Irish cook's grandmother," said Nancy.

Everybody laughed gaily and the feelings regarding the "Comet's" new blue

coat were dispelled. Nedda had been a welcome interruption.

"Papa always does the right thing," Billie announced presently. "I'm glad

he did it now. I was a little hurt at first, of course. But I understand

perfectly what his reasons were. Everybody will be looking out for a red

motor car that runs over people and they'll never recognize the 'Comet'

It's just as if he wore a disguise."

The dark blue car was, as a matter of fact, not nearly so conspicuous as

he skimmed along over the road, and it was the very wisest thing Billie's

father could have done to change the color. Probably every man, woman and

child in the multitude that had clustered around the car that day on

Arakawa Ridge would be constantly on the look-out for the red machine,

and never glance twice at the blue one.

"I do feel so inconspicuous and quiet and lady-like," remarked Billie

when some time later they left the motor car in charge of Komatsu and

went in to visit Shiba Temple in Shiba Park. These chapels are mostly the

tombs of the Shoguns who for many years were powerful nobles and who

really ruled Japan in place of the Emperor, a mere figurehead in those

days. The magnificent tombs they built for themselves are now the very

pride of Tokyo. Within the great red gates of the main temple, upheld

with scarlet columns, wheeled flights of pigeons quite tame. The girls

bought packages of grain from little booths and fed them and presently

one of the pretty creatures perched on Mary's wrist and ate from her

hand.

"Don't frighten him," she whispered, her eyes brimming with tears of

pleasure.

All the afternoon the tourists wandered through the wide courts where

were armies of stone lanterns placed in exactly the right spots. They

passed softly flowing fountains wherein the worshippers washed themselves

and climbed stately stairs by fern-set walls. Court within court they

entered adorned with magnificent paintings and carvings of marvelous

workmanship. They walked through the great hall of books where scrolls of

immense value are kept, each swathed in silk and lying in its own lacquer

box. At last dazzled and silenced by the succession of magic courts, they

returned to the outer world of the living, and climbed into the motor

car.

"Before we go home, don't you think we had better inquire for Mme.

Fontaine?" Billie suggested.

Miss Campbell assented. So long as they did not go in, she was quite

willing.

They found the gate of the Widow of Shanghai's garden stretched wide

open; a jinriksha was about to pass into the street. A Japanese lady

in a rich costume was the occupant. She exchanged one swift glance with

Billie and quickly looked the other way. Billie started slightly. She

felt uncomfortable. It seemed to her that she had been looking straight

into the eyes of Mme. Fontaine.

"Did you notice," said Mary, "that the Japanese lady in the 'riksha wore

her arm in a sling?"

No, they had not noticed it, but there was nothing remarkable in that. No

one even commented on the fact, while they waited for Komatsu to inquire

and leave their cards.

"Mme. Fontaine was still very much indisposed," the message came back,

"but she would be glad if the ladies would enter and have some

refreshment. She regretted she would not be able to see them herself."

The ladies would not enter, however, as it was nearing the hour when Mr.

Campbell would return and expect to find them in the garden waiting tea,

and the "Comet" bore them swiftly home.

CHAPTER XII.

A THEATER PARTY.

"It's very easy for a bachelor to entertain in Japan," remarked Mr.

Buxton one afternoon in the Campbells' summer house. "A busy man is

saved all bother and inconvenience if he wants to give a theater party,

say, with a dinner to follow, by putting the affair in the hands of an

'elder sister,'"

"Suppose he hasn't any elder sister," put in Miss Campbell feeling

slightly offended. Perhaps she was older than Mr. Buxton, but she was

sure she didn't look it and she had no intention of being designated as

his "elder sister."

"Oh, but he always has," replied Mr. Buxton. "A Japanese providence

always provides a _Nesan_, or elder sister, for persons desiring to

entertain. All she requires of you is to leave her alone and pay the

bill."

Miss Campbell felt somewhat mollified.

"But what does she do?" asked Mary.

"She does all the work, makes all the arrangements, engages the boxes and

the 'rikshas, orders the dinner, tells you how to act; in fact, does

everything any good elder sister would do to oblige a little brother."

The others smiled at this droll notion but there was something rather

touching, too, about the simple title of elder sister or _Nesan_ for this

efficient and reliable individual who took all the burdens on her own

shoulders. As a matter of fact a _Nesan_ is the proprietor of a tea house

and her business is to get up entertainments.

"And it is for this reason," continued Mr. Buxton, "that I am able to ask

all of you for the honor of your company to the theater to-morrow at

three and later to dinner. I could never have undertaken it alone, but

having been provided with an efficient relative older and wiser than I

am, although she looks to be under thirty, I feel no uneasiness

whatever."

"I am inclined to accept your reluctant invitation on the spot, Buxton,"

laughed Mr. Campbell, "for self and family."

"I didn't intend it to appear reluctant," answered the Englishman. "I

only wanted to assure you that if you would do me the honor of coming to

the entertainment, all things would be correctly carried out according to

Japanese etiquette and there would not be a hitch in the whole affair.

Will you come?"

"We shall be delighted, Mr. Buxton," answered Miss Campbell.

"I thought you would," he added. "Indeed, I was so certain of it that the

little _Nesan_ has already got a list of the guests and the whole thing

has been arranged."

"And to make assurance doubly sure, you thought you would just mention

the matter to us?" asked Mr. Campbell, who enjoyed teasing this rather

odd and amusing old bachelor.

"How do we dress?" asked Nancy.

"I never thought to ask the _Nesan_ how the ladies should dress. But if

you take my advice, I should say comfortably. That is, if you can. I

believe a woman's clothes are never really comfortable."

"Mine are," broke in Billie, poised on the railing of the summer house

swinging her feet carelessly.

"Would you have us dress like men?" demanded Miss Campbell indignantly.

"No indeed, Madam," answered the bachelor, "but in your present costume,

you must admit that it would be difficult to sit on the floor."

"But I don't wish to sit on the floor," exclaimed the spinster. "It's a

perfectly absurd custom. Besides, you are edging away from the main

point--trying to draw out of the--"

"There will be no chairs to-morrow," interrupted the other, blinking his

eyes like a wise old bird. "And," he continued as he took his departure,

"neither will there be any knives and forks."

"I shall take mine along, then," called Miss Campbell, whose discussions

with the bachelor kept them in a constant state of amusement.

"It would be an unpardonable breach of etiquette," he called over his

shoulder. Presently he turned back and added, "You are not to use that

infernal machine for my party. The _Nesan_ provided 'rikshas for all

guests."

"But that's just an additional expense to you, Buxton," cried Mr.

Campbell.

"I know it perfectly well and I so suggested to my elder sister, but she

didn't seem to understand, and I decided I would rather hire a gross

of 'rikshas than try and make her. So you may expect three of 'em

to-morrow at a quarter past two. The performance begins at three."

"Dear old 'Comet,' he's always getting slighted nowadays," remarked

Billie. "He never gets to go anywhere."

"He's probably glad enough to sit in his cell and meditate on the

mutability of human events," answered Mr. Buxton, and this time he really

did go.

It happened therefore that the "Comet" was once more left in humiliating

retirement while his young mistresses rode off in jinrikshas which

appeared at the door exactly at the hour mentioned by the host of the

afternoon. Indeed the motor car had good reason to be a disgruntled

machine. He never did seem to be a part of the Japanese landscape like

the graceful 'riksha. As a matter of fact he was a blot on the scene and

entirely out of place against a background of an ancient temple or a

group of picturesque individuals in clothes more brilliant in hue than

his own boyhood coat.

Converging from various points in Tokyo but all timed to meet at the

theater door exactly at five minutes to three, came the other guests of

the party in 'rikshas provided by the _Nesan_. Mme. Fontaine was one of

these.

"What a picture she is," exclaimed Nancy, noticing at once the

widow's beautiful costume of embroidered pongee over which she wore a

kimono-shaped mantle of the same embroidered silk, the sleeves of which

covered her arms and hands completely.

Nodding and smiling at the girls brightly, she followed Miss Campbell

into the theater where they were met by the plump, hospitable little

_Nesan_, who prostrated herself before each guest and removed shoes at

the same time.

Miss Campbell groaned.

"Oh, dear," she complained. "Even at the theater! I shall never get

accustomed to walking flat-footed. I shall be wearing bifurcated

stockings next, I suppose."

"Etiquette, Madam, etiquette," said Mr. Buxton. "You must do as the

Romans do, remember, or else be thought extremely rude."

But there was no time for argument and the party hastily distributed

themselves in the two boxes. Yoritomo Ito kept close beside Nancy while

Nicholas Grimm and Reggie Carlton sat tailor fashion in the back of the

box. The theater was a strange place to the Western eye. There was not a

chair in the entire house and Mr. Buxton chuckled aloud over Miss

Campbell's complaints when she was obliged to sit on a mat on the floor.

Below the two tiers of boxes, the pit appeared like a gigantic

checker-board divided into square compartments by partitions about a foot

high. In each compartment squatted six people. Running from the rear of

the house to the stage was a slightly raised walk three feet broad to be

used by the actors as an exit. The stalls were crowded with men and women

and children. Here and there were groups of geishas or dancing girls.

Their rich apparel made bright spots of color in the scene. The children

ran about with perfect freedom, up and down the aisles at the sides and

in and out of the stalls, eating sweetmeats and visiting their friends.

And there was scarcely a grown person in the entire audience of Japanese

who was not smoking, for women as well as men smoke in Japan: one pinch

of tobacco in a short pipe, one puff, a little whiff of smoke inhaled and

the operation is over. Before the curtain rose, the _Nesan_ flew busily

from one box to the other with cushions and sweetmeats, baskets of

oranges and boxes of sweet pickled black beans. Presently came the sound

of two blocks of wood striking together. Then the curtain rose and the

audience settled itself for three hours of the most intense enjoyment.

The play was a Japanese legend and the actors picturesque and dramatic,

but if all the greatest actors in the world had combined to give the

performance, Miss Campbell could not have maintained her cramped position

a minute longer than two hours.

"I am sure my limbs will refuse their office, Duncan," she whispered. "If

this goes on much longer, I shall have to be carried from the theater

like a helpless paralytic."

"Buxton, don't you think we've had enough?" suggested Mr. Campbell, and

the bachelor, glad to stretch his own cramped legs, took the hint and

gave the signal for departure.

Once more they were in the 'rikshas, only this time Nancy found herself

seated by Yoritomo and Billie and Nicholas had paired off in the same

way. Miss Campbell was not sure that she approved of this change.

"In my day," she remarked to her cousin, "young ladies never rode alone

in buggies with young men."

"But they aren't buggies, Cousin," he answered good-naturedly.

"They are, all but the horse," said Miss Campbell.

But they had arrived at the gate of the tea house before the argument

could proceed and were presently rolling through a garden enclosed by

high walls. It was a fairyland of a place, even more beautiful than the

Campbells' own garden, filled with brilliant beds of flowers and here and

there a small grove of stunted pine trees.

Through the door of a tea house, low roofed and brown (houses are not

painted in Japan), rushed a score of _musumes_ (maids), pink-cheeked and

bare-footed, who greeted the guests with low bows and removed their

shoes. There also was their own particular _Nesan_, owner of that

particular tea house, who bowed gracefully and said in Japanese:

"Be honorably pleased to enter."

Inside, the tea house was scrupulously clean. The bare boards in the hall

seemed worn thin by scrubbing and nowhere were any furniture or ornaments

except the hanging scroll. The floors were covered with soft wicker mats

and presently they were all seated in a semicircle at one end of the

room. The younger members of the party were in a perfect gale of subdued

laughter by this time. Elinor, too dignified to look where she was going,

had stubbed her august toe and for at least half a minute had hopped on

one foot in an agony of pain. Nicholas had privately circulated a rumor

that live carp would be one of the courses, and not to eat a small piece

would give grievous offense to the _Nesan_ and her _musumes_.

After a little table about a foot high had been placed before each guest,

a procession of miniature waitresses entered with the dinner. In quick

succession were served fish soup, crushed birds with sugared walnuts and

oranges, broiled fish with tiny balls of sweetened potatoes, and numerous

other strange but not unpalatable dishes, and all the while streams of

_hors d'ouvres_: horseradish, spinach and seaweed. But they were not

obliged to eat with chop sticks. Mr. Buxton had provided knives and

forks.

At last with the greatest ceremony, the little proprietor herself

appeared bearing a large silver tray.

"Here it comes," whispered Nicholas. "What did I tell you?"

There, sure enough, was the carp, taken from the water a moment before

and sliced into delicate pink steaks. He lay on a bed of fresh water

grasses and leaves, and each portion was served in a dainty mat of

twisted grass. Nobody refused a sacrificial morsel, but only Yoritomo and

Mr. Buxton had the courage to eat it. Mr. Buxton swallowed his at a gulp

and Miss Campbell shivered all over at the sight.

"How could you?" she exclaimed in a whisper.

"Etiquette," he answered. "I would swallow a mouse for the sake of

etiquette in this polite country."

During the dinner there had been a sound of suppressed laughter and the

tinkle of music behind the partitions, and now, after the last round of

the innumerable courses had been served, the partitions were shoved aside

and four samisen players entered followed by eight dancing girls. Nothing

could equal the grace of their bows as they glided softly in. Their

smiles of welcome were inimitable. Then their faces became grave and

serious and the dance began. The oldest was hardly more than fifteen and

the youngest about ten. They were like sober-faced little dolls in

gorgeous brocaded robes as they paraded, stamped their white-stockinged

feet and postured with elaborate fans.

Mme. Fontaine, who had eaten no dinner and talked very little, watched

the dancers with intense interest.

"Are they not charming little creatures?" she asked Mr. Campbell. "They

are trained to be so,--to sing, dance and amuse and to look pretty. But I

assure you some of them develop into splendid women. Many of them marry

well. The geisha girl is not always a butterfly."

There was a subdued fire in her eyes as she spoke.

Mr. Campbell looked at her curiously.

"You have a special tenderness for them, I see," he remarked.

"I was one," she said.

While this little colloquy was going on, Yoritomo was whispering into

Nancy's ear:

"You think they are pretty? But they are not so beautiful as you. There

are no blue eyes in Japan."

And Nicholas was saying to Billie:

"By Jove, it's terrible sitting in this position for three hours at a

stretch. Do you think we could slip into the garden? I have something I

want to tell you."

Being on the end of the semi-circle, they crept behind one of the sliding

partitions and rose stiffly to their feet. Two steps more and they were

in the garden, now flooded with moonlight.

"It's romantic," observed Billie, "but what will Cousin Helen say? She's

a very strict chaperone."

"Tell her you couldn't endure it another moment; or tell her I couldn't,

which would be perfectly true. I feel as if I had shrunk a few inches. I

can't stand up straight."

Turning down a walk leading to the little gold fish pond, they presently

paused on the miniature bridge and looked down at the reflections of the

stars mirrored in the pool beneath. They were quite silent for a moment.

Then Nicholas cleared his throat and began in an embarrassed and

hesitating way:

"Miss Billie, can you keep a secret?"

"Don't you think that is rather an uncomplimentary question?" answered

Billie. "I must have made a poor impression on you."

"Indeed you haven't. You have made just the other kind," he replied with

boyish candor. "That's why I wanted to tell you something, but it was a

stupid way to begin. Please forgive me. Of course you can keep a secret.

Any girl who is cool-headed enough to run a motor car and--and keep

machinery in order and--"

"Well--and what?"

"I think you are just great, Miss Billie. I never met a girl like you

before," he mumbled half audibly. "That's why I wanted to tell you

something--that is--confide something to you."

Billie looked uncomfortable. She was only a month younger than Nancy, but

she Was far less experienced in the ways of the world, her tastes being

more boyish and simple than those of that gay little coquette.

"In the first place, you knew I was a civil engineer. That's how I

happened to meet your father. Every engineer in the country wanted to

meet him, because he is a very famous one himself, as you probably know."

Billie was pleased at this compliment. Her father was too modest to tell

such things about himself, and she had no way of knowing his reputation

unless other people told her.

"It was through Yoritomo that I came to Japan. We were friends in New

York; and it was through his uncle, who is high up in public affairs

here, that I got an appointment almost immediately. It's been interesting

work, most of the time around Tokyo, and I have enjoyed the experience.

But, you see, I came here with just a little money and fell on my feet

and feel that I am under obligations to Yoritomo and his family for a

good many favors."

"Of course," answered Billie. "But what of it?"

"Well," began Nicholas slowly, "Yoritomo has been a good friend to me. I

have always liked him and looked up to him because he's a deal cleverer

than I am and a wonderful student,--but lately,--it's hard to explain to

you, Miss Bille, but I--"

"Don't you like him any more?"

"No, no, it isn't that." Nicholas paused again and wiped beads of

perspiration from his face. He shifted his position and dug his hands

into his pockets. "I don't think I can say it," he said. "I thought I

could, but it's too deuced hard."

"Go on, you silly boy."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I don't trust him," he blurted out.

"But Papa likes him," said Billie, simply, feeling that her father's

sanction was as good as a royal stamp of approval.

"Oh, yes, of course. Everybody likes him. It isn't that."

"Then what are you driving at?"

"Good heavens, I don't know what I am driving at. Only, you see, I

introduced Yoritomo to the family and something happened the other day

that made me uneasy. It seemed to me that I ought to warn you not to get

too thick with him--that is--not you but Miss Brown. You see, Japanese

are different--they take things more seriously--" Nicholas plunged deeper

and deeper in.

"Can't you tell me what happened?"

"That's the queer part. There's nothing really to tell. It was one of

those little incidents that mean everything or nothing. I couldn't tell

Mr. Campbell because it was too insignificant, but I thought I might make

a clean breast of it to you and you could warn Miss Brown--well--not to

talk too much to Yoritomo. She might tell him something--"

"But Nancy hasn't any secrets to tell, Mr. Grimm."

"I thought you promised to call me Nicholas? I didn't say she had, but

these Japanese are the wiliest people. They will use you without your

knowing you are being used. Couldn't you just tell Miss Nancy to be

careful without explaining why? Don't girls ever do that? Just say that

Yoritomo's a Jap, and Japs are deep people and she had better not tell

him all she knows."

Billie laughed.

"Why, yes, I could, I suppose, but I'm sure it's not necessary. She

doesn't know anything to tell."

"Whew!" ejaculated Nicholas, fanning himself with his hat. "I'd rather

dig a tunnel through a mountain than have to do that again. I decided

I had to do it and I have been working it over in my mind for days. First

I thought of Miss Campbell, but she would have gone off her head about

it. Miss Brown wouldn't have understood, either. She would have been

angry, I suppose. So I decided to come to you. I felt sure you would

understand and know exactly what to do."

Billie smiled. She was beginning to be very fond of this boyish, honest

young man whose nature was not unlike her own. Just at that moment they

saw Yoritomo and Nancy strolling along a moonlit path. He was talking to

her in a low intense voice and she was smiling and dimpling as usual. It

occurred to Billie that Nancy was getting very grown up all of a sudden

and for her part, she couldn't see any fun in it at all. She had noticed

lately that Nancy did not enjoy their old-time girlish fun half so much

as she used to. She would rather stroll in the garden with a young man

than with her four devoted friends, and "hen parties" as she called them,

did not amuse her any longer.

Billie began to feel quite serious about the benighted state of her best

friend. Her nature was deeply tinged with sympathy and sweetness, but she

was not yet old enough to feel tolerant with Nancy for growing up and

craving beaux and flattery.

"I will speak to Nancy Brown," she thought, and that night going home in

the 'riksha by Nancy's side she turned the matter over in her mind. "But

not to-night," she decided, for Nancy had never seemed more adorable than

on that ride, chatting with her friend about the evening's pleasures.