A KYOTO DIVINITY.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXV, Issue 10016, 5 December 1908, Page 1 (Supplement)

A KYOTO DIVINITY.

I I (By Israel Putnam.)

She was not in the least like an <*rdi n irv globe trotter. I abhor globe trot J, r J. They go about the world getting m ,. r ,sMons. Impnssions are the Majo nC v'.- substitute tor convictions. I nevei xu'-v: a person with impressions who was ~,,; offensive; generally they are noisy. She had come i.ith r by way of the (•;.,.-:. across the Pacific or else from the \\, -t. bv Suez. I did not know which. [ ~rll v knew that she rutiki not have been [..r.g'in Japan—knew it by her clothes ■,<.\v.'h were not Japanese. They suggested ~-h,-r worlds Ix.-yond the sea too expensive t."r Anglo-Orientals to live in. They sug—but why continue? If I were to ; down half" of the> things suggested l.v those dainty, iicecy, shituniery. fasci";,atiug things I should never get on wit!? «:v story. And it. was i:ot her clothes v f;i li attracted me to her. It- was her Es: ..d. . A man never worries about a woman s nii:id unless it is concealed behind a beau-t:-'.i: lace. Hers was. I got behind the certain and was not disappointed, liuc I , : ..id' ceased to prefer the curtain. This is heresy and unsound reasoning, but it's We had been friends, for some time. If «!:■• was a globe trotter she had the decency to descend to a walk when she struck Japan. A person who can trot thi'iugh the gladdest of God's countries (!>■.->• i-ve» no sympathy. i tur friendship had the advantage of bi'liK unconventional from the start. I rendered her a traveller's service and she was not afraid to be civil to me after wards. This was the first tiring which drew me. Then there were others. They tame thick and fast. Finally we discovered that we had mutual friends. That is, it'* mentioned people who were friends of friends of mine. I told her that I knew them, as it would make her more tare that I was all that I ought to be. It was not strictly true, and when she taxed me with it afterwards I told her sin- was worth it. She accepted the explanation. I used to come to breakfast late so that I could talk to her across the deserted dining-room. I got horribly hungry, for she never came down until just before the doors closed—sometimes afterwards, when she would push them open again. The doors were of paper, and it didn't matter. I like a woman who can be lazy at the right end of the day —which is the front end. Early risers are a nuisance, ana ought to be prohibited by law. fine morning I waxed bold. I had been screwing up my courage for a week. '"And what are you going to do this morning?" I asked as. I ate my orange. It really wasn't an orange. It was a horrid big thing with a skin like a horse blanket anil insides which tasted like medicine. '"l'm going to do another temple, she replied. '"lt's almost the last." "Have yon sworn off, or has the supply run out?" I ventured to inquire. "Its merely a sightseer's vacation." "I wish you'd take me with yoa." I said this desperately, as a man might confess suddenly to a crime, or propose marriage to a woman of his mother's generation. I was abashed at my boldness. She looked me over. I think I appeared harmless I felt so. ••Certainly not I" she replied. "I'm sorry. Bat it probably isn't- really worth seeing. One temple is just like another. I don't think I like temples. Why don't you spend your mornings in the hotel gardens, feeding the goldfish?" She flew to arms in defence of her . hobbv.

aoooy. '"This is the finest temple in Japan. It's the temple of —never mind the name; I | don't remember it. That's where 1 go I with my hook when I want to be quiet." "How about the beggars and the baoies?" I asked, delighted with my success. "They're a part of the whole." '"They're the whole of the part—that I fetest," I answered. "Don't you care for the temples?" "In a. way I-do. But I don't want to mow who "built them, or. for. .what purpose, or in what year of Meiji they were restored by which Daimyo, or what Celebrated artist painted the bird that had to be painted into a cage to prevent it from pecking at the eyes of the goldfish in the water which the idol wept when he thought what a wonderful thing the artist who made the temple had done or " "Oh, be quiet, please! Old things appeal to me. Did you never feel that you could sympathise with ancestor worship?'' I shook my head. "I'm afraid not. Didn't have that kind of ancestors." I had finished my breakfast long ago. I ordered strawberries, and the mechanical doll who served me twittered: "Yery sorry." They were out of strawberries. So I took oatmeal. I would have taken Digs' feet to gain time. "Where is your bump of veneration?" "It's a depression, I'm afraid. But I could venture some things—if I might." She ignored the remark. "I admire s people who are so faithful to their past, who clins to it." Her eyes were dreamy. By the way, "they were blue, those eyes, arid the deepest "blue I have ever seen. When you looked into them you never remed to get to the bottom. It always makes me dizzy to walk along great heights and look down. '"Don't you think," I suggested gently, "that in the name of common sense, not to mention common decency and possibly one or two other things, a certain discrimination should be exercised? There are pasts and pasts." "I was speakinc of the past of a nation not of an individual." "When two or more people are banded together in the form of a nation, they cando more harm that could possibly occur to the mind of one poor, solitary sinner." I proclaimed. 'lf Japan is beautiful in the present let her past rest. It needs it. Those Shoguns and things must have made things awfully tired." "Are you as flippant with the present as voui are" with the past ?" she asked scornfully. '•l'm not flippant with the past. I'm only flippant with my friends. I'm very distant with the past—very much so. I'd like to strike it off my visiting list.'" She laughed and left the room. I took my cisrar and a piece of bread for the pild-fish. 11. She didn't seem particularly surprised when she saw me at the temple. I had Drepared all sorts of explanations, but 1 had no need of them. She was sitting .iwt without the main shrine on a platform which overlooked the valley. I begun to think that temples had their uses—as frames. I spoke to the picture, indicating the frame with a wave of my hartrl. "Excellent example of the work of Ku-a-ini-Mi'dco. who flourished in the reiitn of Koaki-ni-Kodzu. just before -" "T know alt about it." she interrupted. 'Thcmirh I must admit- that their names mean as much as the real ones. The Buddha is supposed to be remarkably fine." "It looks like a relative of mine." I observed. looking at her book. It was a paper bound pamphlet which undertook in twentv paces to explain Buddhism. Infinity, the Hereafter, and the nature of God". a ll, in bad English. '"I thonsht this a '_'Ood place to study it in." she explained. "I'rav accept me as a teacher." "How funny. I couldn't imagine you teaching anything." "Oh "but" I can. Let me demonstrate the theory of emanation and absorption. Its apropos." "Prav proceed." "Welt, for instance, you emanate things arul T absorb them." -~ "Si:ch as what?" "Repose, fox one thing. You are repose "ersontfied. You might ask me to -'oin you." She quoted from her Murray. "The temple is opened to all visitors dnrina the hours from eicrht to r-ix.'" I threw myself at her feet. "X-nv I have absorbed vour renose. There is T °nr demonstration. "What next ?"* 'There is the doctrine of «xistence anil non-existence." she sucrq-est'-d. "I was in Kyoto. That was non-erir-t----«nce. You came. Xow i" is existence. Ask me something difficult-" "If you talk like that I sh -II ~o jiway." "That would be inconsistent. You a"> ' searcher after the lisrht and you wr>-ld fecouracre me from tellinsr the truth." "It's not the truth, but no matter." She opened the book and rea 4 : '" 'On nr tv naz at the perfection of pure action

one becomes a Buddha.' Don't you thinl that a beautiful ideal' It's a religion o hope and incentive." ""N'ot to me. 1 should hate to thinl you'd ever become anything with a faci like that in the temple there." ; .She turned the pages of her book. "Here is something which I don't alto ;_e;h'-r grasp : "'Letus cite an analogy to throw light on the above doctrine. A gold lion is made of gold by a 6mith. The figure once forged may be transformed at any time. It is certainly gold throughout, but it lias not the true nature of a lion ; so we must say that the lion is nothing but a mere figure, having an apparent existence by virtue of the cause-and-condi-tinn ithe'gohl and the smith).. Existence and Non-existence pervade the gold lion and are absolute truth. Anyone who does not recognise the gold lion to be. the result of cause and condition may be said to be ignorant of its true nature. And anvoue who persists that the lion is nothing, because he regards only the gold and negates the existence of the lion, denies too much. If one takes the form of it for permanent existence, he is said to have a misconception of existence. Buddha would class all such persons as being in error.' "What do you sat her from that*" "I think Buddha messed right for once. Bead it back and make the lion an ass, and the whole thing will be clear. It reminds me of an aunt of mine who is a Christian Scientist." "It's certainly perplexing," she 6aid, laughing. She ' had wonderfully white teeth, and lips which suggested warmer things than Buddhist doctrines. It was a glorious sunlit morning. Japan can apolo'.'ise more srracefully after :i long spell of rainy weather than any country on earth. It had poured incessantly for five days, and now on the sixth, the moisture glistened on every leaf. The tov people in the valley below were swarmins in and out of their toy houses and up and down their toy streets. Nature smiled and man smiled with her. The deep tones of the bell of another temple came to us across the valley. Down in the heart of the city a temple roof and a factory chimney, Romance and Utility, the Past and the Present, were dwelling side by side. Man has never invented an instrument for correctly measuring time. I have a watch which cost several hundred dollars and rings bells when you press a lever, and yet I know that- this particular morning was three hours shorter than those of preceding days. I had just- joined her when she discovered that it was time to go home to lunch. "What a bother!" she said. "I could 6pend the day'."' "You shall," I answered. "I had foreseen this and ordered a lunch, the like of which was never before sent out from the hotel. I.mchcon will be scr.ed right here in ten minutes."' She demurred at first, but I insisted. "This is the most mxy-- nlace in the world." I explained. "iiisrht in plain sight of the city and .in temple .'rounds. If" you will only. s.av. I'll no away, it you" like, and eat with the rickisha men." "What nonsense!' she answered. "I accept with nleasure." "Mv lunch is the best thing about me." I proclaimed whrr. :h?v ha 1 spread it all out before us. T'leie v.ere salads and all sorts of things done up in little wooden oa-ka'es. She took a child's delight in investigating the mysteries of a crockery jar built in tiers like a pa"oda. It contained salt, pepper, butter, ana cheese, each in its own little story "I must sond word to the hotel,'' she said. It must not be in'.a 'ined that mv Divini-

sty—for as such I had becun to regard her I —was travelling alone. She had a duenna 0 in the shane of an aunt whose expenses I judged =he was paying. I gathered this i- from the way Divinity allowed herself to i. he bored by the old pa-ty. Nothing short of the role of hostess would have 1 justified sH'h submission. n "he aunt had b : "e eves, like Divinity, only very much diluted. She had the sort of a voice 0 which, belongs to those people who use the -word "awful" as an adverb. Moreover e she was interested in Japanese morals and - other improper things. If it hadn't been 1 for Pivini'v. I tliink she might have bet come a reformer. i So Divinity sent word to her aunt that .i she would not be home, and having soothj. Ed her conscience ate" her lunch without g self-consciousness. I admired her ability to do an unconventional thing without . dwelling upon its unconventionaliiy. i I had known her a month or longer. ' And we had been alone together main" ■ times. I blamed myself when I thought of the time I had lost. I looked for an • opening and resolved "to make one. I "Hotels are oniy made to sleep in. We " should lunch like "this every day." "It's the noveity that makes the attrac- ' tion." she replied. ".Some things never lose their novelty.' ""•Such as what ?'' [ "Well, love, for instance." ihat would do for a starter. I helped myself to more 1 salad. "If you were in love, do you think , it would lose its novelty?" "Well, really! I— How should I < know ?'' "Haven't vou ever been?'" • "O'a. well": ves! I think so. When I > was a little girl." > "Tell me about it." "I was in love with the little boy who • lived across the street." ' "Reallv in love?" "Oh, yes. really—and desperately! 1 just worshipped him." • "Fortunate youth. What became oi him-" ... , "I don't ..now. He went away. West, I think. His parents were poor. 1 wonl dered what it would be like to care for a i" grown-up person like that and be grown » up yonrself. ■\i,on't think it. Grown-up people i never care like that—not when they're really grown up. It's different."' ■ "Are"'vou alwavs cynical?" "Its "not cynicism. It's philosophy. '' Philosophy is cynictm properly digested. • Cynicism is theVway a moral dyspeptic absorbs philosophy. But seriously, it's true. i Love, like' everything else, is biggestm ' childhood and dwindles with maturity. 1 We had finished and I lit a cigarette. She looked across the vailey at the hills : bev-ond." "1 suppose if I met him now, I ! should laugh. I hope I never do.' "Let's hope you don't. Hcrnd little freckle-faced boy !'" "He wasn't at all I" [ "I know he must have been. They all I are. Did he know it?" ""That I loved him?" ': "Please don't put it that way. ihat • vou were experiencing the common form - of youthful insanity which goes by the - nanie calf love. Because calves never have it I sun-nose." -If course I never told him. I would have died first. Oh, he was a splendid - little fellow: So inanly. He worked so t hard at school, and afterwards he used to earn money to helo his mother. She was a widow. " Poor little chap! I wonder ; how the world has acne with him." "he - snoke. wistfully, and there were actually traces of tears in those wonderful eyes. [ She was the type of woman to whose eves 5 tears often come, but from which they : seldom fall. "He's probably made a fotune by this f time. He's the' Mayor of Minneapolis—or some other horrid place. ' "You speak as though it were .ages ;ito." oho laugued. "Do 1 look so very ofd?" i "It was: ages and ages ago. You have outgrown it. It belongs to a previous s existence." "And vou?" ""Oh. my affairs were legion! I began, as you d ; d. wuen T was a child. But uns like vou. I didn't know when to stop. I had seven or eight before I was eighteen. When I was eighteeen it was very see rious.'' i "'Tell me alxmt it." "'I will. She was a married woman.. You needn't look shocked. Every--5 thine was very -roper. She was about thirtv-nve and had a husband of about I sixty. She also had children. One was s a dreadful little ciirl of eleven. The mother u=ed to bribe her to come into the 1 room and do kittenish little things like a trirl of six. I worshipped her —th^ - mother. I mean. I used to fifes her hand and give her presents. I had it all fiiured out that we were to be married. ' Her husband could not- live more than ten => vears, and then she would only be forty--1 five. I used to go around inspecting women of forty-five and tryins to think " how youns they really were. It was hard work. Perhaps that's the reason I fell i out of love. I always hated work."

t "What a character you must be !" shi E exclaimed. "But that's not the worst of it. I'vi : been in hot water all my life, until fiv< s years ago. After I got' over that attach ment there were a lew others. Not se rious. I was blase and too much a mar "of the world. I couldn't take woraei seriously. I took nothing seriously. 1 was cursed in being rich, so I didn't have to. Well, when I was twenty-live—l—--0 Lord! I went and did ior myself!" She was giving me close attention. "What did yon do':" she asked. i fancied she was interested. "I got engaged. She was a slip of a girl of nineteen. Very pretty, insipid style, you know." She nodded. "Yes, I know. Go on." "Well. There's no ulace to go to, vou see. The truth is that, in a way, nothing radical bavin'- been done and —and " "Oh, for goodness sake ! Out with it!" ''You might say we are engaged yet." "Then why didn't you sav so in the first place? When are you going to be married?" I resented her calm manner. "I don't- want to be married —exactly." She laughed merrily and I was compelled to join in. '"You see," I eaid. "I haven't Been her in five years, and I know I don't Ir>ve her, and I honestly haven't any idea that she still loves me or that she ever did. We never were lovers; that is, she never was. I. think she thought it would please her mot Iter and —oh, hang it all. It was October and the foliage was turning and we were .alone in the country !" She didn't seem to treat the matter as a jest. "But surely you must have some sort of an understanding. You haven't seen her for five years. Bo correspond?" "Yes—in a way—at intervals." "As lovers ':'■' "Oh, no! That is—well, of course, I sometimes write things that—well, that I wouldn't write to your aunt, you know." "I'm not so sure of that. Is this why engagement is to bind for all time, why you have stayed away so long?" "Y r es. 6he thinks I'm in business here in the East." "Are you?""No." "Then the truth is, you havan't the manhood to write the girl and tell her honestly that you want to break the engagement.'' I nearly jumped off the plateau." Would you consider that manly?" I demanded. Can a man break an engagement ?"' She reflected. "I don't see why not," she 6aid at length.. "I think that"is just the distinction which should be made between marriage and engagement. If the engagement is a bind for all time, why the marriage at all? If I were engaged I'd stop at the altar if I thought better of it." "Ah, but that's different! . You're a woman. A man who jilted a girl would be thought a cad'.'' "I think it's infinitely worse to act as vou have for five years. That's cowardly-" "Perhaps it is. I never thought- of it that way before. Ought Ito go !■:- e and say : 'My dear yong lady, I am- ready for the sacrifice'?" "Vou might write and break it off." "Well; the difficulty about this is it's all .so very vague. A man would seem like an ass if he wrote to a girl breaking off an engagement which didn't exist, wouldn't he?'' "What's the record since then?" "The last five years? Nothing. I've been travelling. Twice I went home when she was in Eurooe. I learned my lesson. I wish' I knew what to do.''

'"Do you mean to tell me you haven't been in love with anyone for five years?" '"Absolutely—until " "You're burning your coat with your cigarette ash." "I—you must think me a fool." She laughed. "Xot necessarily. Fools are not smart enough to run away from a woman they don't want to marry. They go through with it and ruin a couple of lives. You're a bit of a fool on that one subject, perhaps." "Do you imagine that I couldn't love if I met the right woman?" I demanded. She rose to her feet. "I haven't the least doubt you could. It seems to be your specialty. Xo, please don't come with me. I'm going shopping. You may put me into my 'rickisha, if you like." "Remember one thing," I said, as we parted. '"l've a clean record for five years." "I'm not sure that that's not the worst part- of it," she retorted. '"Good-bye." 111. The next day the weather had' a relapse. When I awoke, it was pouring in torrents on the roof above my head, and when I looked' out of the window it was a mist in the vailey, -a fog around the hotel, and higher up the mountain it became a cloud. What- an idiotic thing language is! When I reached the breakfast room Divinity had gone. Later, swathed in a mackintosh and fortified against . bad smells with a pipe, I went for a- 'long tramp. When a man passes thirty and is still in a fog about his love affairs, lis is in a truly bad way. There is some excuse lor twenty not knowing its own mind ; absolutely none for thirty. At the latter age a man should be able to say"-positively : '"I love this person." or "I do not love this person." Something told me that Divinity w-as Divinity, and that there would never be another like her. But I knew my weakness. A man who has ten faults, and knows the wholle ten, is better off than the man who has a single 'fault, of. which he is ignorant. My fault- of faults was srsceptibility, and on that account I had fully resolved not to marry. And now a person in white gowns who haunted temples and read books on Buddhism threatened the whole fabric of my resolutions with col lapsa. It did collapse, and sooner than I expected. Whc.i I returned to the hotel she was in tb. Je. tec. open i.e.... inj a ...obe ..ew.jp.iper. "Any news about Buddha?" I inquired. She gave me a wonderful smile and her hand. "Good morning Have you been for a walk? How energetic!" "I have that kind of energy.. The kind which sets people to tramping about the country with no object. I lack the sort which makes them stay indoors and do things." "You should have been a larmer. Did it .ever occur to you?" She> looked fairer with each succeeding day. I made up my mind to make love to her. Love is a peculiar thing. It suggests itself to a man; it must be suggested to a woman. "Yes," I replied. "It has occurred to me. Most things have. But I shouldn't be a success. I could never bear to raise cabbages when roses could be made to grow out of the same sort of ground." "A man who spends his lifa raising rose* finds them all thorns in the end. You'd Letter pay some attention to the cabbages before ali your rose leaves fall." "Why should they ever fall? There's a new crop every season." "They will fall because it's the law of the world that- men should work and not play. You are a disciple of idleness." "And why not? If it's a good, imiooernt sort of idleness?" "Is it?" "Oh, well, I—look here ! We're discussing a general proposition." "I wouldn't- give a fig for a general proposition that couldn't be backed up by a good practical illustration. "I don't want- to be a. 'good practical illustration.' My ambitions don't run that way." "No? Which way do they ran?" '"I am afraid you will laugh if I tell you." "'I promise not to." 'T want- to be an author." "Then why don't, you write something?" "I have—several books. Some people liked them. Some people have wretched taste." "I don't remember ever having heard of vou." "What chnrming frankness' Why should you? I have written three novels and —a' full confession is good for the soul—a volume of verse." "Y'ou don't mean it! And I've set- you down as a dawdler. It was mean of you not to tell me." "Xot at all. An author is a dawdler. That is, the sort of an author I am. People who write books about the at-

e mosphere, and religion, and politics and how to cook, are different. They're use a ful members of society. I don't know i enough to write tilings like that." "Were your books successful?" "O'ne of them sold twenty thousand—l "The Lady of June.'" i "What! Are you " i '"Yes. It's my alias." s "It's a charming little story. I cried - over it." "That settles it. I'll never write another line 'as long as I live. What business have I go to go about maiding people cry?" "Have you written anything lately?'' "No. The last one was four years ago. I'm. too old now. I'll be thirty-two in the autumn.." "And to think that a man like you wrote that -beautiful love story '." "Look here—what do you- mean by that? Why shouldn't I? What's the matter with me, anyway?" "I beg your pardon. I was thinking of what you told me yesterday. I wonder if all the men who write beautiful things about love are triflers with life." "I'm not- a, trifler with .life. • I'm a poor, weak specimen who is -trampled on by your sex." "Then you must be a poor, weak specimen ! A man who allows himself to be trampled on by one woman is a poor specimen. By more than one, a mighty poor specimen!" | ~ "How old are you?" |; "Why should I tell you ?" | "You shouldn't. Only when it cornel to your judgment of the- faults of others, Svoti have the charity of nineteen. I might be a. lot worse than I am." i "There's a whole miserable philosophy in that sentence. You. should 'say that you might be a lot better than you pre. Then there would be some hope for you. I am twenty -seven." : "Then you have developed slojyly. Y'ou're unformed:. Y'ou have a great deal to learn. Y'ou " "Go on." "You're altogether charming. I'm falling in love with you." I took the 'plunge boldly and felt better. f She laughed. "I move than half 'suspected it. Since when?" ( "Couldn't you-possibly take me seriimsly—in that way?" I "Not possibly." i "What right had you to suspect it I" "i'our record. If I we're not here it would be my aunt." t "Oh, I say now; really!" i "Be careful. You mustn't be rude.',' "I know I mustn't. I'm always dping things I mustn't. Now I've fallen desperately in love with you and I've told you all about myself so t that theres no chance —so that you can't possibly—can you ?" "No." "You've no heart. You've led me on. You've encouraged me. You've confessed me. You've been adorable, and you've deliberately and wilfully done everything you could to add to and aggravate yj.ouiiidorableness. You've given me every reason to believe —being the only man in!the hotsl—that you've done it for me." / "Was it so dreadfully forced?" "Not a bit. It was the most natural thing' in the world. Y'ou were perfection to start with. I love you. ; "Would you consider me personal $f I reminded you that you're engaged tp a girl at home?" I "Very personal, actually rude. Unpardonably presumptuous. Besides, it isnt the truth. It isn't really an engagement, and if it is, I'll make her break it off. I'll oe a beast. I'll confess dreadful things to her. I'll l get drunk and go and call on her mothe;:. No. I won't. I'll do the breaking my-

self. You said yesterday I could. Wasn't that encouraging me?" j. She was confused. I could see it. She changed color. I gloated over the change. "Oh, I had no idea then that—" phe stopped abruptly. | "That what?" _ f She arose. "What nonsense ! I'm anot going to take you seriously."' S "Oh. but you must! I will be taken seriously. I love you. As I spoke. I had taken her hand. „. Real life is the clumsiest stage manager in the world. She delights in anticlimax. Just then the aunt appeared on the scene and talked for half an hour about the high prices asked for satsuma. Then she carried Divinity off to lunch. iv. ''ls there nothing in the world," I asked, "which eou'ld induce you to look with favor on the holy estate of matrimony?" ''l don't know," she answered. "A mar might." She was in the garden back of the hotel, and was leaning with her head on her hand watching a great hungry goldfish which came to the surface and gobbled the breadcrumbs she had thrown in. How beautiful she was ! Her soft brown hair was fixed in a new way. Hsr figure suggested perfect maturity as well as perfect grace. She had a voice as gentle as the voice of our own good, resolution — only there was more force and conviction to it. "I have .htl idea," I pursued, "a wellconceived idea, that I am the man, selected bv Providence for that undertaking." "I had been awake half the night thinking it- over. Yes. I did* love her. It was really love this time. Nothing else, none of the other had ever counted. "How absurd!" she murmured, but T could see that she flushed. "Please define definitely.'' "What?" "The obstacles." . "I haven't time. It lacks only two hours of lunch time." ".-re they so many?" "Well—perhaps not so many. But they are insurmountable." "Firstly?" "I'm not sure that I love you." Everything in the universe began to sing songs. "Not sure? How can you doubt it'?" She laughed. Nature's music was silenced in very shams of its inferior performance. "I didn't mean to say that," she admitted, with a blush. "Of course you didn't. You couldn't doubt it. You're mot t,hat_ kind. You know your own mind. You're strong minded. You show it by wanting me to —do things." "Aside from that—you're—you're no! the kind of a. person I think I want to marry." "You mean I'm not your ideal?" "No. I haven't any ideal, but you lack too many qualities which I have always considered necessary to a wife's hap piness." "Such as what?" "Constancy—for one thing." "What do you want me to swear by ? And what right have you to set- me down as inconstant? Those other girls? They didn't count. I've told you so' before. They were only a phase. They •" "How do I know I'm not a phase?" "You're not. You couldn't be if you tried. There's nothing phasey about you. You suggest permanency. You're substantial, you're solid, you're weighty, you're heavy, you're " "Heavens, what a picture!" 'Tin referring to your character, not your person, which is " "That will do—please." I looked the admiration which she would not allow me to express. "Try me!"' "Ah, that's not possible!" she cxdaimed sadly. "How can a woman try a man in our generation? What is there to try him with? We've just got to take you on faith and run our chances. It's a losing game." "Stuff'and nonsense! There are as many things to be don? now as there ever were. There's more real knighthood in me than there is in all the old wooden-faced Daimyos and Shoguns that ever, disfigured a temple will. I'll go home and get to work. I'll go to Congress. It only costs si.v. thousand dollars, where I come from." "I don't want you to do that. You've a profession. Write another book." "I will." I exclaimed. "I'll write a wonder. If you'll marry me." "No, I won't. If I did, you'd never have anything to make you write another. I'm not such a fool." "Is it your idea to prolong our engagement until I have written enough to make a fair-sized library? May I ask that you marry me when I'm sixty, whether I have finished or not?" "I was not aware that the engagement you speak of existed." "No? Then I'm Mad you heird it first from me. I'll send you a letter confirming it tins afternoon."

She laughed. "There's another obsts cte. The girl at home." "Oh, bother! I'll write at once am announce my engagement to you. That' a delicate and considerate way of break ing off oitr understanding. It assume nothing and settles a great deal. Sh couldn't expect me to be a polygamist you know." •'1 wish she'd sue you for breach o promise," she • declared! viciously—"it's al you deserve." "She's not that kind. Besides then isn't any to breach. She's in love wit! another man by this time. Women an fickle." She fell silent, and I went over oui conversation. Decidedly it gave me rea son. to hope. I would hope. It's th: occupation I'm best fitted for anyway. ] detest despondent people. "Shall the book be prose or verse? I'ir going to write it to'you—to your heart, if you have any." ,- "Then make it prose, by all means. Poets are apt to change their inspiration with their meter." "And when it's finished?" "You've no idea how much happiei you'll feel." "Come, now. I'm a bit of a business man with all my nonsense. Will you marry me when it's finished?" "No. Oh, no! Please." "Then I won't write it. I'll never write another line. I'll commit suicide, and then I'll go to the dogs. You're a heartless, brutal l , unfeeling,' inconsiderate •She had risen to her feet' and, was, I thought, a shade paler. "Don't go!" I cried; "I really didn t mean it!" "When you've finished it—if it's a- good book—a successful book—l'll—well, tai*. about getting 'engaged." All the blood in my body went to my head'. It had to go somewhere, for my heart was working overtime. I advanced to her and held out my arms. "Darling! And until then?" ;, "I'm keeping you from your-<work," she said, and with that she went in search of her aunt. V. ■ Will a man work? Will a bird sing in the mating season till it all but bursts its little throat? Will a priest pray to go to heaven? Durino- the weeks and months which followed! fwas a different man. I worked ten hours a day—feverishly. The only hours I allowed myself were ones when she and I were together. We talked of everything in the world but love, for she had placed love on her conversational black list. As I felt the booK. growing each day and worked out the thread 01 my story I ielt a joy in the woi-k which I "had never known beiore. It wasn't a love story. 1 was too much in love myself to write a love story, it, was a tale of adventure, and ono ol the characters got horribly in the way toward the end. There was nothing to -do with him. So I murdered him. I mean, 01 course, i had one of the other characters do it, but the crime was mine ail tne He stood between me and the finishing of tnat book, and the finishing of thai boux meant things i dared not tiiiiiii auout. 1 used to dream of her lips. 1 learned to love those characters. They were more than real to me. .bach one oi t.iem was hustling night and day to ma in my love. I cared nothing for literary merit. I would do things with that later on. when I nad biir. o and she and I—joyful thought—

ail time. . And yet the book wasn't altogether bad. It had" some good points. One was, it taught me how much a man can do-hi a httle time when iie geis at it. This is very useful-knowledge, because it encourages you to spend so much time in idleness. A man who day and mg;iL ior a weei can make a record which wiil enable him to loaf through the next three months serene in the.'.consciousness of what he can do wheii he wants to. And then, one glad morning, about three months after l had gotten to worx, all the light went out ot the world. \Ve were sitting in the secluded httle garden which we had both come to love. I was talking, and she was listening, fcha would sit for a long time looking at me • with eyes which said that 1 was ;. m.\SUry and so was lite, but she hoped ior the best. The most trusting women of all are the common-sense ones who have thought . it all out and reached the age -of tha-ty without -marrying. 'J.he trust of a young girl is nothing to it. A girl's trust is her weakness; a woman's, her religion. "You look charming this morning," I had been saying. "I feel for you a distinct and very friendly veneration. Confound your black list. Veneration laughs at locksmiths —I mean at black lists. Are you going to tyrannise over me alter we're married?'' "Take cure ! That's getting on forbidden around." ■T don't care if it is. I've been corked up long enough. There are things 1 want to say to you. Very important things. "Then finish vour book." '•I will. It will be finished this afternoon. It's finished now. All but the , final touches. Those are done m proof. I took her hand and . kissed it. Ihis much of liberty she allowed me. Just then a servant of the hotel appeared on the scene with a letter. He came up and handed it to me with a profound bow. When we were alone I glanced at the envelope. "It's from her." "From whom?" 'The girl at home." "She's in deep mourning, apparently. I looked at the letter again. "Why; so she is! I hadn't noticed it, It's'something new. ± wonder who for?" "Read it and see." It was dated San Francisco, and began : ".My dear Georee :" George is my name.' I never mentioned it until I had to because lam ashamed of it. However, it's one of the very lew objectionable thing connected with my personality for which I am not responsible. I read on. She announced the death, within a month, of both her father and mother and then told how, in the examination of the affairs of the estate, they had learned that what had been supposedly a large fortune had dwindled away to nothing-." as a result of speculation. "Her father and mother are both dead, I said, pausing in the reading, which was a refreshing thing to do, for she wrote one of those across-the-oaper-in-four-di-rections letters which are not easy to decipher, "and she has lost all her money. They were supposed to be very rich, but it seems the father speculated." "Poor girl! Why ! what on earth is the matter?" I had iumtied to my feet with an exclamation. No, I may as well be honest. I'm afraid it was an oath —a mild oath, of course, but still an oath, for at the begining of a new paragraph, I read tins : " "I liave thought it all oat, Dear, and I feel tlv-it it is the only thing to do. for T do not know that you. can leave your hnsine-s and it takes so long to got a letter. I am coming out on the next steamer and we will be married in Yokohama as soon as I get thee. I have all vour beautiful letters with me, Hear. _ I know you have have had reason to think me ro'ld. but it was really because I wasn't sure I loved you. All this trouble has given me a cleaver vision. Sweetheart. You. can never say I am cold again." ■'There was more of the same sort, but that was enoup-h. I was sick at heart. "Oh, my God !" I cried. "What a horrible mess !'' "What is it?" she asked in a pained voice. " "It—l—she Oh ! Read it! Pvead it!" She took the latter and read it through to the end, while I sat with my head in my hands, trying to realise the situation. "Well?" she said at length. I looked up. I'could gather nothing from her face. "So you found her letters cold, did you?" T groaned. "Oh ! Don't!" She got up and walked to the end of the garden, where there was a terrace. She stood for a long time looking over the valley. Finallv die came back and stood in front of the bench. "What are you going to do?" '■Ho? What can I do? She'll be here in a week. Oh, what a farce! What a tragedy ! I can't maTry her. A girl ha? no right to do a thing like that. It's not maidenly. It's not decent! Why under the sun didn't 6he give me a chance to come home?" "It's altogether your own fault.- Yon let her understand that- you were in busi-

ness out here and couldn't get away. Oh I'm afraid you can't blame her for this!' It was my turn to pace up and dowi: the walk. "One of the bad features of the whoh business is," I said, "that she thought we were engaged all along ——"' "I imagine that 6he was justified." "And all that time sh« was supposed to be an heiress. Don't you see the point of it all? She wouldn't do this if she had a fortune. I don't believe she cares a rap for me. But f couldn't face the world if I were to break with her just when she's lost it all and— Oh, it's horrible '" She had been sitting on the bench' ap- ' parently lost in thought. Suddenly she said : "You don't love her. Are you sure yon loye me?" .'Absolutely. I never half guessed how much until now.'' "Then don't marry her. You've a right to your life. A woman never hesitates to break with a man she no longer loves; surely a man is entitled to the same privilege. What do you care for the world's opinion? Love is everything. I love you." As she spoke the last words her voice broke. She was leaning forward, searching- my face with her eyes, as though to read my soul. The air was charged with the intensity of human emotion. Instinctively we both felt that the crisis of our lives had come. As for me, everything seemed to be going from me at once. "I hardly think you understand,'' I said. "This girl will be in Yokohama in a week, alone and friendless, and relying on my love and protection. I've been a bit of a ead, I know, but I don'^think I've ever been quite the scoundrel. I can never tell you how much I feel the wrong I've done you if you love me. But I " I stopped, for she was weeping. '"Oh, thank God!" she said, "thank God!" "You —you didn't mean it?" "No ! of course I didn't. • I wanted To see if you were what I had hoped. 0 my darling, you've made me so happy !" "Happy! This is no time for happiness! This is .the deluge." In spite of my words there was a feeling very near to peace in my heart, and the shadowher words had cast was lifted. She looked up, smiling. "I suppose you can't understand," she said, "men seldom do. But I've not been happy all these months. I've been in doubt. I knew I loved you, but I had no reason to trust you. And I was afraid. It's all such a terrible risk with a woman, dear. She has to take a leap in the dark, usually, and l trust to God and her faith to bring things right. A woman's love is not like a man's." I sat on the bench beside her, and took her hand in mine. Together we watched the sunlight shimmer on the backs of the ■oidfish as they swam about the little pond. ~ "Tell me," I asked softly, "what is a woman's love?" Tliei'e is nothing further to record about that morning except that when we parted, I had come into a kingdom of happiness which passes far beyond that of mere possession of a heart's desire. I wanted to be alone to dream. That is probably the reason I met lwr aunt, who detained me for one mortal hour talking about her observations of Japanese home life. ' VI.

Eight days after, late in the afternoon, I stood in front of the Grand: Hotel in Yokohama, and watched a. great ship come around Honmoku Point, looking like a phantom in the mist and rain. She was a big new liner on her first voyage, and she was bringing two prospective brides to their prospective bridegrooms. The other bridegroom was with me, and had been fidgeting about all day, waiting. I had dons no fidgeting. I was calm. There is a calmness which precedes dissolution. As far as everything I valued 1 in life was concerned, the dissolution was coming as fast as twin screws could carry it. The other bridegroom and I' went out to quarantine in a- little launch. There was a high sea running outside the breakwater, and the rain was driving in across the bay. For two iiuortal hours we waited, drenched to the skin-, while the little Japanese doctors felt the pulses of American sailors twice their size. We lay alongside the huge black mass and could jest see the faces of the passengers peering over the side. My companion soon distinguished, his bride, but mine was nowhere to be seen. Night fell thick and 1 wet and black, and the only thing we could see was the yellow Hag at the masthead. It was down at last, and we climbed on board. 1 stood about for a few moments on the deck and in the passageway, while people bumped into me and exchanged greetings and embraces wuu their families from shore. My fiancee was not to be seen, but I recognised in the purser an old acquaintance. We had spent twenty days . together once, helpless in the miu-Pacinc With a broken shaft. "Ah, there you are '" he .said, and I fancy his manner was constrained. "Come into my room a minute, old man.'' "Is" Miss Warring a 1 passenger?" F asked. "Yes. Yes. Of course. Come this way." He led tae way to Ims cabin, which w?s cozy and warm after the wet. Then he rang the bell for a drink, and put out a box of cigars. "I say," he began. ' "Well, say it, for I've got to be hunting up my-—fiancee." He sat down on the locker. "I've a slight disappointment for you, old chap. She's not on board, fhe only came —that .is she stopped over—you know—at Honolulu." "Oh! Then she'll be along, I suppose on the next boat." "Perhaps not the very next, you see. Oh! Blast it, I'm no good at this business ! Here, read it yourself!'' He thrust a letter into my hand and started for the door. "I barred his way. I had no idea of reading through one of her lengthy er::,=scress letters to- find out what the matter was. "Hold on!" I cried. "Tell me what's up—man ! Now ! at once !" "Well, then —old man, I'm beastly sorry, vou know, and .it's an infernal outrage, and she isn't worth your '-.■■" Tying about. She —she got off at Honolulu and married a sugar planter. A chan with millions who came over from "I'V—.-o. Have a drink. Why ! What on earth?" I bad looked at my watch and 'olted from the room, lie caught me iu c l as 1 reached the gangplank at the foot of which the launch n4* whistling I thin!-: he thought I was going to jump overboard. He grasped me by the arm. "For God's sake, man, he calm- '" "Calm? Don't stop mo! T wan*' to catch the night train for Kvoto ! let mego.. T'U write you !" T shook him off.-and caught the launch just as she was backing off. .e lei't the side of the monster and ploughed out 'vay bark through the choppy sea to the ha tuba. The other bridegroom va<-- on hoprd with bis bride. They wvo making a show of themselves in the cabin. T looked through the little port. He was kissing her. "Tt might have been me!" T sang gleefully. "It might have been me !" VIT. She a. .iered to her determination not to marry me until I had written a successful book. So T went home to publish it. W» travelled together on the same ship, and those days and nights at sea wero something never to be forgotten. T published the book, and it was a failure. It deserved to be, for a man cannot write for a purpose, whether it be love or money, and be proud of what he has written. When there was no doubt about its being a failure, I determined to have it out with her. T was her guest in be- bo'pern the country. The aunt was still with us. She had no other family. I meant to retire the aunt. It was just at sunset when T went in search of her. I found her in the rose garden behind the house. She was gathering ros°s for the table. "Divinity." T began:. "Here is a letter from the publisher. The book is a flat fii'ure. It won't sell. People don't want it." . She made no reply, and I continued ; "Are your ambitions so insatiable? 'Will you never marry me until I have written another successful book?"

"You are young, and life is big, and so is the world," she said. "Writ© another. Am 1 not worth it ?"' 1 felt, that I had stood for her nonsense long enough. 1 went deliberately up to her and took her in my arms. "I have waited," I exclaimed. "I'll wait Jio longer. I don't care for tiie world. You are my world." The roses slipped-from her hands and strewed the path at our feet. "Then your book is successful," she said, softly, "ior it has pleased the world.''