dark when I came home. Yes, I had returned home at this hour many a time, weary and dispirited, and feeling all the more so as I saw our gate and slackened my pace still further. Eventually I entered our own room. There was no light. When I found the matches and lit the lamp, the room seemed more than usually solitary and empty.
As I was trying to take in the situation, the landlady came to our window and asked me to come out.
"Tzu-chun's father came today and took her home," she said simply.
This was not what I had expected and I was taken aback and stood there speechless.
"Has she gone?" this was the only question that I was able to frame.
"She has gone."
"She—did she say anything?"
"No, she did not say anything. She only asked me to tell you when you came back that she had gone."
I could not believe it, although the room had impressed me as so strangely solitary and empty. I looked around, half expecting to find Tzu-chun, but I saw only a few pieces of old, decrepit furniture, all testifying to her inability to hide anything from anyone. Perhaps she had left a letter or note; but there was none. I found, however, that she had gathered up in one heap the salt and dried peppers, flour, and half a head of cabbage and had placed by it twenty or thirty coppers. These were our entire resources and she had left them all to me so that I might manage to live on them until something else turned up.
I felt oppressed and rushed out into the darkness of the courtyard. The landlady's room was bright and resounded with children's laughter. My heart calmed down and there
