shrubbery, its curved path of stepping-stones, and its small lake with nine darting gold-fish.
The dining room, at right angles to our rooms, overlooked the garden, too. It was the sunniest room in the house. The closets were hidden by sliding doors covered with tan-coloured tapestry, and the long, square-cornered fire-box with drawers—the invariable adjunct of every dining room in Japan—was a handsome one of white birch. On one side was always a cushion, ready any moment for the mistress when she came to talk over house matters with the maid, called from the kitchen just behind another tan-coloured door which looked a part of the wall. The bathroom, Taki’s and Sudzu’s room, and the servants’ entrance, were just beyond. Our own “shoe-off place” and entrance hall were in front, opening toward the big wooden gates with the “camel’s-eye door” in one of them.
From room to room Chiyo led me, stopping in each and pointing aimlessly here and there. “Chiyo wants——” she repeated, but her wants were so many that she had no words. The emptiness, which I loved, oppressed her. She longed for the big canopy beds of Mother’s home, for the deep-cushioned chairs, the large mirrors, the big square piano, the flowered carpets and the windows curtained with lace, the high ceilings, the wide rooms, the spaciousness! I looked at the wistful little face and my heart smote me. But when she pulled my sleeve and, burying her face in the folds of my dress, said piteously, “Oh, Mamma, take me home to Grandma and Papa’s picture! Please! Please!” I caught her in my arms and, sinking to the floor, hugged her close and, for the first time since I could remember, I sobbed aloud.
But this could not last. Where was my samurai blood? Where my childhood training? Had my years of unrestrained freedom in America weakened my character and
