The beautiful Fuji San, the most precious and revered object in all Japan, is dedicated to a goddess, “the Princess who makes the blossoms of the trees to bear”; but pilgrims of every religious sect crowd its paths in warm weather and on its sides dwell holy men or “mountain worshippers,” who practice great austerities.

It seemed a little unfeeling to be so gay and light-hearted with Nancy unhappy and ill at home, but there was gaiety in the warm dry air, and it bubbled into happy laughter and chatter as they flew along the road.

“Have we brought everything?” called Billie over her shoulder.  “The guitar and the tea basket and the luncheon hamper—­”

“And the mackintoshes?” finished Nicholas.

Billie frowned and her face darkened.

“Everything but your raincoat, Billie,” said Elinor, counting packages in the bottom of the car with the toe of her boot.  “Did you forget it?”

“No, it had a torn place in it,” answered Billie, still frowning.

An incident too trivial to mention, but too unusual to put lightly aside had caused her some annoyance that morning.  She had closed the bureau drawer on a corner of her raincoat, hanging over her arm, and had torn the hem off one side.

“How stupid,” she had exclaimed impatiently, tossing it into a chair.  “You’ll have to lend me your blue raincoat, Nancy-Bell.  I’ve just done for mine completely.”

Nancy, lying on the bed with her face turned to the wall, did not reply.

Billie tiptoed to the foot of the bed to see if she was asleep, but the blue eyes were wide open staring at the wall paper.

“Will you lend me your raincoat, Miss Nancy?” repeated Billie, trying to be jocular to overcome the peculiar sensation of annoyance that had crept into her thoughts.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” answered Nancy, in a low voice.

“Why not?”

“I just can’t.  That’s all.”

Billie felt as if a rough hand had seized her by her collar and given her a good shaking.

“Oh, very well, Nancy” she said, and went softly out of the room.

“I am sure she must be really ill,” she thought, trying to put a charitable interpretation on this act of selfishness, but even illness could hardly account for anything so entirely remote from their usual relations.  And, apparently, Nancy had no fever and was only a little under the weather with a headache.

Therefore, when the subject of her raincoat had come under discussion, Billie quickly changed it.

“Do look at that queer-looking crowd,” she ejaculated, pointing to a group of people walking in couples along the roadside.  Their white kirtles were girded high about their waists and they carried staffs.

As the company marched along, always facing Fuji, they began singing a weird chant.  When the motors drew nearer the tourists saw that each man wore a huge mushroom hat made of lightest pith and from his neck hung a piece of matting suspended by a cord.