Ethel looked at her watch—­it was nine-twenty.  She tiptoed to her room.

An hour later she was in the street dressed in a tailored suit of American make and carrying in her hand-bag a few trinkets and valuables she had found in the house.  Passing hurriedly through quiet avenues, she was soon in the open country.  The road she followed was familiar to her, as she had traveled it many times by auto.

For hours she walked rapidly on.  Her unpracticed muscles grew tired and her feet jammed forward in high-heeled shoes were blistered and sore.  But fear lent courage and as the first rays of the morning sun peeked over the hill-tops, the refugee reached the outskirts of the city of Sapporo.

Ethel made straightway for the residence of Professor Oshima, the Soil Chemist of the Imperial Agricultural College of Hokiado—­a Japanese gentleman who had been educated and who had married abroad, and a close friend of her father’s.  As she reached the door of the Professor’s bungalow, she pushed the bell, and sank exhausted upon the stoop.

Some time afterward she half-dreamed and half realized that she found herself neatly tucked between white silk sheets and lying on a floor mattress of a Japanese sleeping-porch.  A gentle breeze fanned her face through the lattice work and low slanting sunbeams sifting in between the shutters fell in rounded blotches upon the opposite straw matting wall.  For a time she lay musing and again fell asleep.

When she next awakened, the room was dimly lighted by a little glowing electric bulb and Madame Oshima was sitting near her.  Her hostess greeted her cordially and offered her water and some fresh fruit.

Madame Oshima was fully posted upon the riots and confirmed Ethel’s fears as to the fate of her father.

[Illustration:  “But have I lost my figure?” inquired the lithe Madame Oshima.]

“You will be safe here for the present,” her hostess assured her.  “Professor Oshima has been called to Tokio; when he returns we will see what can be done concerning your embarking for America.”

Madame Oshima was of French descent but had fully adopted Japanese customs and ways of thinking.

As soon as Ethel was up and about, her hostess suggested that she exchange her American-made clothing for the Japanese costume of the time.  But Ethel was inclined to rebel.

“Why,” she protested, “if I discarded my corsets I would lose my figure.”

“But have I lost my figure?” inquired the lithe Madame Oshima, striking an attitude.

To this Ethel did not reply, but continued, “And I would look like a man,” for among the Japanese people tight-belted waists and flopping skirts had long since been replaced by the kimo, a single-piece garment worn by both sexes and which fitted the entire body with comfortable snugness.

“And is a man so ill-looking?” asked her companion, smiling.

“Why, no, of course not, only he’s different.  Why, I couldn’t wear a kimo—­people would see—­my limbs,” stammered the properly-bred American girl.