I’d never heard Zura talk so well nor so enthusiastically on a sensible subject.  For a moment I had a hope that her love for the beauty of the country would overcome her antagonism to her mother’s people.  I was quickly undeceived.

Then, as if fearful that praise for the glories of old Nippon might make her seem forgetful of the festal day of her own land, she flashed out, “But please don’t anybody forget that I am an American to the marrow-bone.”  She turned to Page.  “Did you come direct from America to Japan?”

The usual miserable flush of confusion covered the boy’s face.  “Well—­you see, I never keep track of dates; guess I’m too—­maybe I’ve traveled a bit too much to count days—­”

Either ignoring Page’s evasion or not seeing it, Zura continued, “But you love the blessed old country, don’t you?”

“With all my heart,” he answered fervently.

“Then why do you stay out here?  A man can go where he pleases.”

“I have my work on hand and riches in mind.  You know the old saw about a rolling stone?”

“Indeed I do.  It gathers no moss.  Neither does it collect burrs in gray whiskers and hayseed in long hair.  I tell you,” she half-whispered, leaning towards him confidentially, “Let’s you and I kidnap Jane and Ursula and emigrate to ’Dixie Land, the land of cotton, where fun and life are easily gotten.’  Are you with me?” she audaciously challenged.

Page’s face matched the white flowers near him.  With a lightness, all assumed, he answered, “All right; but wait till I make a fortune—­teaching.”  He arose, saying he would go out on the balcony for a smoke.

Soon after that Jane left, saying she must write many letters of thanks.

I was alone with Zura.  The night being mild for the time of year, she proposed that we stroll in the garden.  To her this lovely spot was something new and beautiful.  To me it was something old and tender, but the charm, the spell it wove around us both was the same.  It lay in perfect peace, kissed to silence and tender mystery by the splendor of the great, red, autumn moon.  More beautiful now, the legend said, because the gods gathered all the brilliant coloring from the dying foliage and gave it to the pale moon lady for safe keeping.

“And look,” exclaimed Zura, as we walked beside the waters which gave back the unclouded glory, “if the shining dame isn’t using our lake for a looking-glass.  You know, Ursula, this is the only night in the year the moon wears a hat.  It’s made from the scent of the flowers.  Doesn’t that halo around her look like a chapeau?”

We strolled along, and to Zura’s pleadings I answered with ghost legends and myths from a full store gathered through long, lonely years.  Charmed by the magic of the night and the wonder of the garden, we lingered long.

We paused in the ghostly half-light of the tall bamboo where the moonlight trickled through, to listen to the song of the Mysterious Bird of the Spirit Land.  The bird is seldom seen alive, but if separated from its mate, at once it begins the search by a soft appealing call.  If absence is prolonged the call increases to heart-breaking moaning, till from exhaustion the bird droops head downward and dies from grief.