gay silk into a set of bean-bags or cutting out a paper doll for Chiyo, who, gazing with loving admiration at her sister, sat with her own dear, lazy little hands folded on her lap.
This was our hour to spend in talking of the small happenings of the day: school successes and trials, incidents connected with home affairs and stray items of neighbourhood gossip. But almost inevitably the conversation would eventually drift into a channel that called forth from someone the familiar, “Oh, isn’t that interesting! Tell us about it!” or “Yes, I remember. Do tell that to the children.”
One afternoon Mother mentioned that the priest had called that day to make arrangements for a certain temple service called “For the Nameless” that was held by our family every year.
“Why is it called ‘For the Nameless’?” asked Hanano. “It has such a lonesome sound.”
“It is a sad story,” replied Mother. “A story that began almost three hundred years ago and has not yet ended.”
“How could Kikuno’s story have anything to do with the little room at the end of the hall?” I asked abruptly, my mind going back to the half-forgotten memory of a door that was never opened. “It didn’t happen in that house.”
“No; but the hall room was built right over the haunted spot,” replied Sister. “Is it true, Honourable Mother, that after the mansion was burned someone planted chrysanthemum in the garden, and soft, mysterious lights were seen floating among the flowers?”
Hanano had dropped her sewing into her lap, and both children were gazing at Sister with eager, wide-open eyes.
“Your fate until dinner time is decided, Sister,” I laughed. “The children scent a story. Now you can
