Though another ideal was gone to smash, I was almost ready to cry myself with relief that it was only a playmate Zura wanted in Pinkey and not a sweetheart.  Even at that I was at my wit’s ends again to know what to say next when the door opened.  Jane had heard the commotion, and there she stood in her sleeping garments and cap, a kimono floating behind her.  In one hand was her candle, in the other the only ornament she possessed—­a stuffed parrot!

She came in and, as if talking to soothe a three-year-old child, she coaxed, “Zury, Zury, don’t cry!  Look what Jane has to show you.  This is Willie.  For a long time he was my only friend; then he died.  I missed him terribly at first; but don’t you cry about Mr. Pinkey.  There are plenty more men in this world, just as there are plenty more parrots and as easy to get.”

“Oh, I wish everybody had died!” the girl sobbed on, heedless of Jane’s attempt at comfort.  Suddenly, turning away from us, she stretched her arms to the starlit space beyond the windows and cried, “I want my home!  I want my friends!  I want life!”

* * * * *

Hours later the great golden moon rose from out the velvety shadows of the mountains.  It looked in the window, found a sleeping girl, and kissed the heavy lashes still wet with passionate tears.  Veering still farther around to the balcony, it rested on two silent old women.

From the city there floated up to us the tinkling of the samisens in the tea-houses; the high, sweet voice of a dancing girl as she sang the story of an old, old love; the sad notes of the blind masseur as he sought for trade by the pathos of his bamboo flute; the night-taps from the far-away barracks.  Off to the west we could see the fast-disappearing lights of a Pacific steamer.

Neither sounds nor sights seemed to touch Miss Gray nor ruffle her serenity.  For a long time she had been looking steadily into space, as if held by a mental vision of some spiritual glory.

“Jane,” I asked at last, “what shall we do?”

Maybe it was the moon, but something had smoothed out every wrinkle in her face.  She looked young and wise, as she leaned over and put her hand on mine.  Here was a Jane I had never known before.  In a voice low and sweet, she repeated the ancient hymn: 

    “God holds the key of all unknown
      And I am glad. 
    If other hands should hold the key,
    Or if He trusted it to me,
      I might be sad.”

From that night my feeling of superiority to Jane diminished.  Some of her strong sweetness, penetrating what seemed the crusty exterior of my heart, entered in to abide with me always.

IX

JANE HOPES; KISHIMOTO DESPAIRS

When Zura appeared the following morning no reference was made to the events of the night before.  She was pale and coldly courteous.  In her sharp brightness there was no hint of an olive branch being hid about her to be offered to me or presented to her grandfather when she returned to his house that day, as previously arranged.