“I should like to see it,” said Asako, excited by her cousin’s enthusiasm, though she hardly understood a word of what she had been saying.

“You ought to learn some of it,” said Sadako, with the zeal of a propagandist.  “My teacher says—­and my teacher was educated at the court of the Tokugawa Shogun—­that no woman can have really good manners, if she has not studied the chanoyu.”

Of course, there was nothing which Asako would like more than to sit in this fascinating arbour in the warm days of the coming summer, and play at tea-parties with her new-found Japanese cousin.  She would learn to speak Japanese, too; and she would help Sadako with her French and English.

The two cousins worked out the scheme for their future intimacy until the stars were reflected in the lake and the evening breeze became too cool for them.

Then they left the little hermitage and continued their walk around the garden.  They passed a bamboo grove, whose huge plumes, black in the darkness, danced and beckoned like the Erl-king’s daughters.  They passed a little house shuttered like a Noah’s Ark, from which came a monotonous moaning sound as of some one in pain, and the rhythmic beat of a wooden clapper.

“What is that?” asked Asako.

“That is my father’s brother’s house.  But he is illegitimate brother; he is not of the true family.  He is a very pious man.  He repeats the prayer to Buddha ten thousand times every day; and he beats upon the mokugy[=o] a kind of drum like a fish which the Buddhist priests use.”

“Was he at the dinner last night?” asked Asako.

“Oh no, he never goes out.  He has not once left that house for ten years.  He is perhaps rather mad; but it is said that he brings good luck to the family.”

A little farther on they passed two stone lanterns, cold and blind like tombstones.  Stone steps rose between them to what in the darkness looked like a large dog-kennel.  A lighted paper lantern hung in front of it like a great ripe fruit.

“What is that?” asked Asako.

In the failing twilight this fairy garden was becoming more and more wonderful.  At any moment, she felt she might meet the Emperor himself in the white robes of ancient days and the black coal-scuttle hat.

“That is a little temple,” explained her cousin, “for Inari Sama.”

At the top of the flight of steps Asako distinguished two stone foxes.  Their expression was hungry and malign.  They reminded her of—­what?  She remembered the little temple outside the Yoshiwara on the day she had gone to see the procession.

“Do you say prayers there?” she asked her companion.

“No, I do not,” answered the Japanese, “but the servants light the lamp every evening; and we believe it makes the house lucky.  We Japanese are very superstitious.  Besides, it looks pretty in the garden.”

“I don’t like the foxes’ faces,” said Asako, “they look bad creatures.”