Zura was quiet and, finding she avoided every allusion to home, I drifted into telling her a bit of the garden's history--its unknown age, the real princes and princesses who in the long ago had trodden its crooked paths. Legend said that so great was their love for it their spirits refused to abide in Nirvana and came to dwell in the depths of the dim old garden. I told her the spot had been my play place, my haven of rest for thirty years, and how for want of company I had peopled it with lords and ladies of my fancy. Armored knights and dark-haired dames of my imagination had lived and laughed and loved in the shadows of its soft beauty. Anxious to entertain and pleased to have an audience, I opened wider the doors to my sentimental self than I really intended. I went from story to story till the air was filled with the sweetness of romance and poetry. In the midst of a wondrous love legend a noise, sudden but suppressed, stopped me short. I looked at the girl. She was shaking with laughter.

When I asked why, she managed to gasp, "Oh, but you're an old softy!"

It was disrespectful, but it was also true and, though I felt as if a hot wind had been blowing on my face, there was such a note of comradeship in her voice that it cheered me to the point of joining in her merriment. Our laugh seemed to sweep away many of the years that stood between us and the old thrill of antic.i.p.ation pa.s.sed through me.

We found many other things to talk about, for I searched every crook and cranny of my old brain for bits of any sort with which to interest her.

The last turn in the path leading back to the house found us friendly and with a taste or two in common.

Once, seeing something near by she wanted to sketch, she whispered to me as familiarly as if I were the same age, "For the love of Mike! hold my hat while I put that on paper."

I had no acquaintance with "Mike" and she was bareheaded, but so infectious was her eagerness that I felt about twenty.

What she wanted to sketch was only a small girl in a gay kimono and a big red umbrella, but the tiny mite made a vivid spot of color as she stood motionless to watch a great brown moth hovering over a bed of iris. Before I could explain that the child was a waif temporarily housed with me, shy and easily frightened, Zura whipped from somewhere out of the mysteries of a tight dress a pad and pencil and, with something like magic, the lines of the little maid's figure and face were transferred to the white sheet.

"How Daddy would have loved her," said Zura, softly, as she covered her work. I was silent.

Later my guest and I went into the house and I showed her my treasures.

They were few, but precious in their way: Some rare old prints, a piece of ivory, and an old jewelry box of gold lacquer, all from grateful pupils. Zura's appreciation of the artistic side of her mother's country was keen. In connection with it she spoke of her father's great gift and how he had begun teaching her to paint when he had to tie her to a chair to steady her and almost before her hand was big enough to hold a brush. She referred to their close companionship. Mother wanted to rest very often and seldom joined them. Father and daughter would prepare their own lunch and go for a long day's tramping and sketching. Once they were gone for a week and slept out under the trees. Daddy was the jolliest chum and always let her do as she pleased. He trusted her and never had corrected her. Her voice was low and sweet as she dwelt upon the memories of her father, and when I saw her round white throat contract with the effort for control, I found something else to talk about.

Altogether it was a smooth day and to me a very happy one. Jane had been absent since noon. Her occupations were unquestioned, but when she joined us at the evening dinner it was good to see how her tired face brightened at Zura's girlish way of telling things.

Our guest thanked Jane for the cakes. Said she simply adored bear and tiger cookies, and as for gingerbread Johnnies she couldn't live without them. "It was so good of you to think of me," she told Jane.

"Not at all," replied Miss Gray. "I was as glad to make them as I am to have you with us. Two lone women in one house are bound to get stale. We need young sweet things about to keep us enthusiastic and poetical."

At this Zura's eyes sparkled, but the sincerity of Jane's welcome appealed to her better part and she suppressed a laugh.

My house possesses one small guest-room. Without mentioning it, I disposed of a few curios and with the proceeds I ransacked the shops for things suitable for girls. My morning had been spent in arranging my purchases. It was a very sweet moment to me when, after I had ushered in my guest, she stood for a second taking it all in; then putting out her hand she said, "It's like a picture and you are very kind."

Afterwards Jane Gray, looking like a trousered ghost in her outdoor sleeping garments, crept into my study and interrupted the work I was trying to make up.

"Oh, Miss Jenkins," she whispered mysteriously, "I've just thought it all out--a way to make everybody happy, I mean. Wouldn't it be truly splendid if dear Page Hanaford and Zura were to fall in love? It's a grand idea. She has the mares and anners of a d.u.c.h.ess and so has he."

Excitement invariably twisted Jane's tongue.

"For Heaven's sake, Jane, do you mean airs and manners?"

"Yes, that's what I said," went on Jane undisturbed. "And oh! can you think of anything more sweetly romantic?"

I laid down my pen and asked Miss Gray to look me straight in the eyes.

Then I put the question to her: "Will you tell me what on earth romance, sweet or otherwise, has to do with a young fellow struggling not only with poverty, but with something that looks like mystery, and a wild, untamed, wilful girl?"

To which my companion replied: "But just think what love would do to them both!"

I guess the difference in Jane's sentiment and mine is the same as between a soft-sh.e.l.l crab and a hard-sh.e.l.l one.

VII

AN INTERRUPTED DINNER

The next two days pa.s.sed happily, if a little giddily, and Jane and I commanded every resource to entertain our guest. Zura saw and responded like a watch-spring suddenly released. She found in two simple old women perfect subjects on which to vent her long-suppressed spirits. She entered into the activities of the household with such amazing zest, it seemed as if we were playing kitchen furniture. While it surprised me how one young girl could so disturb regular working hours and get things generally a-flutter, I could easily see that all she needed was a chance to be herself. That was the point that Kishimoto had to understand and would not.

"Please let me be Santa Claus this time, and give out the cod liver oil and the milk and the bibs to the babies," Zura begged one day when these articles were to be distributed; "and mayn't I keep the kiddies for just a little while to play with?"

An hour later, attracted by much noise, I walked out into the garden and saw Zura with a clean, but much-patched baby on her back, one in each arm, and a half-dozen trailing behind. The game was "Here we go 'round the mulberry bush," sung in English and played in j.a.panese.

"Oh, Miss Jenkins," cried the merry leader, "come quick. We need a bush and you will make such a nice fat one."

Before I knew what was happening I was drawn into the mad frolic, reckless of all the work piled up on my desk in the study. I thought maybe I was growing feeble-minded, but the way to it was delightful, if foolish.

Strangely enough, during this time Page Hanaford did not appear. We explained to Zura that he was present the day she made her brief call.

"Oh! do you mean the day I flew into the 'Misty Star' and right out again? Yes, I remember his outlines. Where did you find him? Looked more like a sure-enough man than anything I've seen in j.a.pan."

Jane monopolized the talk at breakfast that morning, describing to Zura the good looks of Page Hanaford and the charm of his romantic story.

Zura seemed more amused by Jane's manner and the funny twist in her tongue than impressed by her description.

Miss Gray finally turned to me and urged once again, "Do let's have him to-night. I'll get the dinner."

Zura clapped her hands and said eagerly, "Oh, let's do! I haven't been to a party in a century. If Miss Gray will be the 'chefess,' I'll be a.s.sistant potato peeler. I can make the best salad. It's called 'Salade de la Marquise de Chateaubriand'; but it won't hurt you. It is only peanuts and cabbage. Daddy and I used to feast on it once a week."

There was no resisting her enthusiasm, and I sent a note to Page Hanaford asking him to come that evening for dinner.

After all there was nothing I could label a reason why he and Zura should not meet.

Domesticity was the last thing anybody would suspect a characteristic of either Jane or Zura. Not knowing what the result would be, I gave the cook a holiday and turned the incongruous pair loose to do as they pleased in kitchen and dining-room.

All the afternoon I was busy with my writing, but from time to time there penetrated through the closed doors of my study sounds of swift-moving feet and gay laughter. The old house seemed infected with youth. Contact with it was sweet. Some of my dreams were coming true. I found myself repeating a long-forgotten poem as I took up another stupid report. I even hummed a tune, something I had not done in twenty years.

Just before the dinner hour Jane and Zura came into the living-room.

Evidently their work in a common cause put them on the friendliest terms. They were arm in arm, and I knew by the set of Jane's collar and the rose in her hair that young and skilful hands had been at work.

Zura's white dress was dainty enough, but it seemed to melt into nothing about the neck and sleeves. It must have been brought from America, as I had seen none like it. n.o.body could deny, however, that with her face, all aglow beneath her l.u.s.trous hair, she was a goodly sight for young and old.

"Isn't she the very sweetest thing?" asked Jane as they approached, adding wistfully, "But I truly wish her dear nose didn't tilt up!"

Zura with stern, forbidding brows, but laughing eyes, rebuked the wisher. "See here, Miss Jinny Gray, that is the only nose I have, if it is sudden. I've worked hard to coax it in the straight and narrow path.

I've even slept on my face for a week at a time." Then with swift, dramatic gestures as the gong sounded at the entrance-door, she whispered, "Hush! The man of mystery doth appear!"

Page Hanaford came in. All our tempting tonics and special dishes had failed to curve the angles in the boy's face and body. He still looked ill. The brooding sadness that frequently overshadowed his lighter moods troubled me.