“Too many damfooly things happen all same time.  Evil spirit get loose.  Sake help me fight.  Me nice boy.  Me ve’y good boy but I no like foreign devil what is.”

Then one day, about a month after my family had been enlarged, I had just wheeled my newly acquired responsibility out in the garden to sun when Kishimoto San called.  He often came for consultation.  While his chief interest in life was to keep Hijiyama strictly Japanese and rigidly Buddhist, he was also superintendent of schools for his district and educational matters gave us a common interest.  However, the late afternoon was an unusual hour for him to appear and one glance at his face showed trouble of a personal nature had drawn heavy lines in his mask of calmness.  I had known Kishimoto San for twenty years.  Part of him I could read like a primer; the other part was a sealed volume to which I doubt if even Buddha had the key.  Sometimes when he was calling I wished Gabriel would appear in my doorway and announce the end of the world to see, if without omitting a syllable, Kishimoto would keep on to the end of the last phrase in the greeting prescribed for the occasion.

The ceremony off his mind, he sat silent, unresponsive to the openings I tried to make for a beginning.  Not till I had exhausted small talk of current events and asked after his family in particular instead of his ancestors in general, did his tongue loosen.

Then the floodgates of his pent-up emotion opened and forth poured a torrent of anger, disappointment, and outraged pride.  I had never before seen a man so shaken, but then I hadn’t seen many, much less one with the red blood of Daimyos in his veins.  He was a man whose soul dwelt in the innermost place of a citadel built of ancient beliefs and traditions.

Out of the unchecked flood of denunciation, I learned that he held Christianity responsible for his woes.  I, as a believer and an American, must hear what he thought; as his friend I must advise him if I could.

In the twenty years that I had known the school superintendent, he had always been reserved regarding his personal and family life.  To me his home was a vague, blurred background in which possible members of his family moved.  He surprised me this day by referring in detail to the bitter grief which had come to him in years gone by through his only child.

I had heard the story outside, but not even remotely had Kishimoto San ever before hinted that he possessed a child.  I knew his need for help must be imperative, that the wound was torn afresh, else he was too good a Buddhist to make “heavy the ears of a friend” with a recital of his own sorrows.

He said he had been most ambitious for his daughter.  Years ago he had sent her to Yokohama to study English and music.  While there the girl lived with his sister who had absorbed many new ideas regarding liberty for women.  Once he was absent from Japan and without his knowledge the girl married an American artist, Harold Wingate by name, and went with him to his country to live.