She knows nothing of the man Hara except that he is coarse and drinks heavily.  The girls in the tea-house always seemed afraid when he came.  Vague whispers of his awful life had come to her.  What was she to do?  She had no money, no place to go, and Uncle was the only relative she had in the world.

Mate, I heard a missionary speak a profound truth, when he said that no Japanese would ever be worth while till all his relatives were dead.  Their power is a chain forged around individual freedom.

She had such loving thoughts of Uncle, Sada sobbed, before she came.  She longed to make his home happy and be one of his people.  She loved the beautiful country of her mother and craved its friendship.

Miss West had drilled it into her conscience that marriage was holy, and impossible without love. (Bless you, Susan!) She wanted to do her duty, but she could not marry this man whom she had never seen but once, and had never spoken to.

She knew the absolute power the law of the land gave Uncle over her.  She knew the uselessness of a Japanese girl struggling against the rigid rules laid down by her elders.  She knew resistance might bring punishment.  Well, Mate, I do not care ever to see again such a look as was in Sada’s eyes as she turned her set face to me and forced through her stiff lips a stony, “I won’t!” But I thanked God for all the Susan Wests and their teachings.

In spite of the girl’s unhappiness, there was a thrill in the region of my heart.  Of her own free will Sada San had decided.  Now there was something definite to work upon.  In the back of my brain a plan was beginning to form.  Hope glimmered like a Jack-o’-lantern.

It was late evening.  A flaming sunset flushed the sky and bathed the ancient garden of arched bridges and twisted trees in a pinkish haze.  The very shadows spelled romance and poetry.  It was wise to use the charm of the hour for the beginning of my plan.

I drew Sada down beside me, as we sat in a queer little play-house by the garden lake.

In olden times it had been the rest place of the Prince Asano, when he was specially moved to write poetry to the moon as it floated up, a silver ball in a navy-blue sky over “Three Umbrella Mountain.”  Had his ghost been strolling along then, it would have found deeper things than, “in the sadness of the moon night beholds the fading blossom of the heart,” to fill his thoughts.

I led the girl to tell me much of her life in Nebraska; of her friends and their amusements.  Hers had been the usual story of any fresh wholesome girl.  The social life in a small town had limited her experiences, but had kept her deliciously naive and sweet.

For the first time in our talks, she avoided Billy’s name.  I hailed it as a beautiful sign.  I mentioned William myself and delighted in her red-cheeked confusion.  I gently asked her to tell me of him.