“Oh, yes, he does.  I talked to him.  He showed me a faded old tract he had been reading every day for twenty years.  Now his eyes are failing.  He can get his customers to read a new one to him.  He wants the bird for a spot of color as it grows darker.  Please, dear Miss Jenkins, let me keep the baby!”

Of course I was weak enough to give in.  Jane made her bargain and for a month the little stray stayed with us.  Then one glorious dawn the tiny creature smiled as only a baby can, and gave up the struggle.  In a corner of the garden, where the pigeons are ever cooing, we made a small mound.

To this good day Ishi declares the children’s god Jizo comes every night to take the child away, but cannot because it lies in a Christian grave, and that is why he keeps the spot smothered in flowers.

Not in the least discouraged by death or desertion of her proteges, Jane Gray continued to bring things home, and one day she burst into the room calling, “Oh, Jenkins San!  Come quick!  See what I have found.”

Her find proved to be a youthful American about twenty-four, whom she introduced as Page Hanaford.

From the moment the tall young man stood before me, hat in hand, a wistful something in his gray eyes, I had to crush a sudden desire to lay my hand on his shoulder and call him son.  It would have been against my principles to be so outspokenly sentimental, but his light hair waved back from a boyish face pallid with illness and the playful curve of his mouth touched me.  If I had been Jane Gray I should have cried over him.  From the forced smile to the button hanging loose on his vest there was a silent appeal.  All the mother in me was aroused and mentally I had to give myself a good slap to meet the situation with dignity.

I asked the young man to come into the sitting-room and we soon heard the story he had to tell.

He said his home had been in Texas.  His father, an oil operator and supposed to be very rich, died a bankrupt.  He was the only member of the family left, and he had recently started to the Far East to begin making his fortune.  By chance he had drifted into Hijiyama.  He understood there was a demand for teachers here.  He was quite sure he could teach; but he would have to go slow at first, for he was just recovering from a slight illness.

“Have you been ill a long time?” I asked, striving to keep my fast rising sympathy in hand.

“Y-es; no,” was the uncertain reply.  “You see, I don’t quite remember.  Time seems to have run away from me.”

“Were you ill before you left America, or after you sailed?” I inquired with increasing interest.

The boy paled, flushed, then stammered out his answer.  “I—­I—­I’m sorry, but really I can’t tell you.  The beastly thing seems to have left me a bit hazy.”

A bit hazy indeed!  It was as plain as the marks of his severe illness that he was evading my question.  His hands trembled so he could hardly hold the cup of tea I gave him, so I pursued my inquiries no further.  As I was hostess to my guests, whoever they might be, I asked neither for credentials nor the right to judge them, for their temptations had not been mine.