A heart of love for thee
  Blown by the summer breezes
  Ten thousand miles of sea.

July, 1911.

Mate: 

There ought to be some kind of capital punishment for the woman who has nothing to do but kill time.  It’s an occupation that puts crimps in the soul and offers the supreme moment in which the devil may work his rabbit foot.  No, I cannot settle down or hustle up to anything until I hear from Jack or you.  Very soon I will be reduced to doing the one desperate thing lurking in this corner of the woods, flirting with the solitary male guest, who has a strong halt in his voice and whose knees are not on speaking terms.

Of course it is raining.  If the sun gets gay and tries the bluff of being friendly, a heavy giant of a cloud rises promptly up from behind a mountain and puts him out of business.  Still, why moan over the dampness?  It makes the hills look like great green plush sofa-cushions and the avenues like mossy caves.

I have read till my eyes are crossed and I have written to every human I know.  I have watched the giggling little maids patter up to a two-inch shrine and, flinging a word or two to Buddha, use the rest of their time to gossip.  And the old lady who washes her vegetables and her clothes in the same baby-lake just outside my window amuses me for at least ten minutes.  Then, Mate, for real satisfaction, I must turn to you, whose patience is elastic and enduring.  It is one of my big joys that your interest and love are just the same, as in those other days when you packed me off to Japan for the good of my country and myself; and then sent Jack after me.  Guess I should have stayed at home, as Jack told me, but I am glad I did not.

Though it has poured every minute I have been here, there have been bursts of sunshine inside, if not out.  The other day my table boy brought me the menu and asked for an explanation of assorted fruits.  I told him very carefully it meant mixed, different kinds.  He is a smart lad.  He understands my Japanese!  He grasped my meaning immediately, and wrote it down in a little book.  This morning he came to my room and announced:  “Please, Lady, some assorted guests await you in the audience chamber; one Japanese and two American persons.”

I have had my first letter from Sada too, simply spilling over with youth and enthusiasm.  The girl is stark mad over the fairy-landness of it all.  Says her rooms are in Uncle’s private house, which is in quite a different part of the garden from the tea-house. (Thank the Lord for small mercies!) She says Uncle has given her some beautiful clothes and is so good to her.  I dare say.  He has taken her to see a lovely old castle and wonderful temple.  The streets are all pictures and the scenery is glorious!  That is true, but the girl cannot live off scenery any more than a nightingale can thrive on the scent of roses.  What is coming when the glamour of the scenery wears off and Uncle puts on the pressure of his will?