"I suppose she's going to visit the Compa.s.sionate G.o.d again," Billie thought to herself absently. "I hope he'll be compa.s.sionate enough to clear the weather by to-morrow."

The next link in the chain of circ.u.mstances was forged when Onoye returned from her pilgrimage. Billie, who had drawn a stool to the window and was sitting with her face pressed against the gla.s.s, saw her walking slowly along the dripping path to the house. The j.a.panese girl was looking at something she held in her free hand, an envelope undoubtedly.

Just as she reached the piazza, Onoye slipped the letter into the folds of her sash and hurried in.

Billie's mind gave a sudden leap of conjecture but she continued to sit quietly, her face against the window, peering into the mist-hung garden.

"Funny," she said to herself. "It couldn't have been a j.a.panese letter because those are rolled up on little sticks."

Not long afterwards, she encountered Onoye in the pa.s.sage. The j.a.panese girl smiled lovingly into her face. Little by little her feeling for Billie was growing and expanding into a real devotion,

"And I'm sure I don't know why she should caress the hand that smote her," Billie had thought. "She's a dear, faithful little soul."

"Are you quite well again, Onoye?" she asked, pausing and slipping her arm around the j.a.panese girl's shoulders.

"Yes, honorable lady. Not any sickly arm no more."

"And have you been writing a letter to thank the Compa.s.sionate G.o.d Jizu for your recovery?" went on Billie.

A frightened look came into Onoye's eyes. The English had been too much for her comprehension, but the word "letter" she had understood perfectly.

"No understand," she said, bowing ceremoniously. And she hastened away, leaving Billie much puzzled and rather curious, too.

The day dragged slowly on, and still the rain poured and the mist steamed and there was no relief from the circ.u.mstances of the weather. Miss Campbell had been feeling rheumatic twinges in her "old joints," as she called them, and remained in bed reading an agreeable novel. Once more the four friends retired to the library where Mary read aloud and the others engaged in various characteristic pursuits. Elinor was embroidering a royal coat-of-arms in colored silks on a cushion cover; Nancy was darning a rent in a lace flounce and Billie was darning her father's socks. This task she undertook each week with extraordinary cheerfulness, although Onoye had offered to do it for her, and O'Haru had almost taken the darning needle and egg from her by force.

As the hands of the clock neared four, Nancy rose.

"Go on with your reading, Mary," she said. "I need some more thread and I shall have to look for it. So don't wait."

"What number do you want?" asked Elinor.

Nancy looked annoyed.

"Oh, something quite fine. I know you haven't it, Elinor."

"Will a hundred do?" asked Elinor, extracting the spool from her neat sewing bag.

"That's too fine."

"I have all sizes here."

"Never mind," exclaimed Nancy impatiently, and hastened from the room, taking her lace-flounced skirt with her.

"Stubborn person," observed Elinor and once more plunged into her aristocratic labors.

Billie grew more and more restless. The book Mary was reading aloud was a detective story, lately arrived from America. It had reached a thrilling point, but Billie could not fasten her attention.

"I think I'll just be obliged to get out and walk," she burst out unexpectedly. "I can't stand this life of inaction a minute longer. Don't stop reading on my account, Mary, dear. I don't suppose I could tempt either of you two hot-house plants to come with me, could I?"

"Since it's just as hot outside as inside, I don't think you could,"

answered Elinor.

"Perhaps Nancy will go," thought Billie, hastening down the long hall to their joint apartment.

But Nancy was not in the room. Her lace petticoat had been thrown hastily on the bed with her sewing box. Billie searched over the entire house for her friend without success.

"Funny," she thought, slipping on her over-shoes and raincoat and seizing an umbrella from the stand in the pa.s.sage.

Presently she found herself in the mist-hung garden, and instinctively her steps turned toward the little bridge and the shrine to the Compa.s.sionate G.o.d. All the way, she kept thinking:

"What is Nancy-Bell up to? Not that,--surely. Why should she write letters that way? n.o.body would object to their coming by mail. It's just her romantic notions," her thoughts continued as she reached the bridge.

Taking the curved path to the foot of the small embankment, the next moment Billie came full upon Nancy and Yoritomo Ito talking earnestly together. There was something rather amusing in their appearance, because down the ribs of their two umbrellas rivulets of water dripped and poured in streams about them.

"Oh, I beg your pardon," exclaimed Billie, the prey to varying emotions: embarra.s.sment, hurt feelings, surprise and, it must be confessed, a dash of anger.

"Oh, Billie," said Nancy, starting violently, "how you frightened me."

"How do you do, Mr. Ito," said Billie stiffly.

"How do you do, Miss Campbell. We seem to be having several unexpected encounters this afternoon. Here was Miss Brown out for a wet stroll on a day when ladies usually remain indoors, and now you come, too. American young ladies are very athletic."

"It isn't a case of exercise with me, Mr. Ito. I came out really to find Nancy," said Billie coldly.

"I shall bid you good afternoon," answered Yoritomo in his most formal manner. "I was just taking a short cut. Pardon my trespa.s.sing on your grounds."

Billie detested untruths and she knew quite well that Yoritomo was not speaking the real truth. She looked at Nancy reproachfully.

"Good-bye," she said and turned her back.

Yoritomo made an elaborate bow and departed and Nancy followed Billie slowly up the dripping path. Half way back, Billie stopped short and wheeled around.

"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, Nancy Brown," she exclaimed.

Nancy had never seen Billie really angry before and she was frightened at the new hard look that had come into the frank gray eyes. But Nancy was in no mood to be scolded. The truth is, she had reached a difficult age and it was not going to be easy to manage her by lecturing and argument.

She had an enormous appet.i.te for flattery and the power of her prettiness had intoxicated her.

"Oh, I don't suppose you would understand, Billie, even if I tried to explain," she answered hotly. "I haven't done anything to be ashamed of."

"Meeting people in the garden secretly isn't anything to be proud of,"

pursued Billie. "And exchanging letters by a servant," she burst out suddenly recalling Onoye's unaccountable trip that morning an the rain.

"I have been told to warn you not to talk too much to Mr. Ito. He's not to be trusted, and I think this a very good time to do it."

Nancy flushed. She was angrier than Billie now. The two girls had turned and were facing each other furiously. Billie felt the pulse leap in her temples and something gripped her throat. The sensation was so new to her that she scarcely knew how to handle it. It was like trying to rein in a runaway horse.

"He's just as nice as Nicholas Grimm," cried Nancy. "I should think you'd be ashamed to spy on anyone. I never thought it of you."

This statement was so unjust that Billie's rage leaped out of all bounds and got beyond her control entirely.

"That is untrue. I did not spy on you. I merely put two and two together and guessed the rest. Can you deny it? And do you call it lady-like and honorable? I don't. I call it common and horrid."