I waited for Zura to tell me, but she didn’t.  She only sang the more as she went about her work, doubling her efforts in making sweet the home and herself.  She seemed to find fresh joy in every hour.

Any thoughts I’d cherished that young Hanaford would come at once, clear up all the confusion about himself, frankly declare his love for Zura and be happy forever afterward died from lack of nourishment.

Only my deep affection for the boy restrained my anger at his silence.  The love and sympathy which bolstered up my faith in him were reinforced by his gentle breeding and high mental quality; but circumstances forced me reluctantly to admit that the story he told when he first came was not true.  Page Hanaford was not only under a shadow, but also was undoubtedly seeking to conceal his whereabouts.  And why?  The question sat on the foot of my bed at night and made faces at me, scrawled itself all over my work and met me around every corner.

It was next to impossible to connect him with dishonesty or baseness when looking into his face, or hearing him talk.  But why didn’t he speak out, and why hide his talents in this obscure place?  He was gifted.  His classes had increased to large numbers, and so excellent were his methods his fame had gone abroad.  The Department of Education had offered him a lucrative position as teacher in the Higher Normal College in a neighboring city.  But, instead of snatching at this good fortune, he asked for time to consider.

He came frequently to talk it over with me; at least that’s what he said he came for.  The law required the applicant for such a position to answer questions concerning himself and all his ancestors.  In my talks with Page about this law I emphasized every detail of the intimate questions that would be put to him.  I tried to impress upon him the necessity of having either a clean record, or a very clever tongue when he went before the judgment seat of the Japanese authorities.  I hoped my seriousness would bring about a speedy explanation, denial, declaration—­anything, so it came quickly.  The truth is I don’t believe he ever heard a word of what I said on the subject.

If Zura was out of the room, his eyes were glued to the door watching for it to open.  If she were present, his eyes would be fixed on her face.  If I made an excuse to leave the room, Page made another to keep me, as if he feared the thing he most desired.  What did it all mean?  If Page Hanaford could not explain himself honorably, what right had he to look at the girl with his heart in his eyes?  If no explanation could be given, what right had Zura Wingate to grow prettier and happier every day?

I had always believed that love was as simple and straightforward as finding the end of a blind alley.  There was good reason for me to change my belief as the days passed and nothing was said on the subject.

Of course, I could have hauled the two up before me, like children, and told them what I had seen and was still seeing; but I dreaded to force the man’s secret and I had to acknowledge that, for the time, I was no more equal to guiding this thing called “love” than I was to instructing birds to build a nest.