her shoulders. “After all, women’s eyes have already looked upon it,” she added a little bitterly; “the new order of things has done much to take the spirit of reverence from us all.”

Then we, she at one end and I at the other, lifted off the lid just as Jiya and Yoshita in their ceremonial dresses used to do, long ago. I felt a little awestruck as we leaned over and looked within. Some of the sacred relics had been removed. The coat and sword of Ieyasu were in charge of another branch of the family, and Brother had taken the books of the Inagaki genealogy; but, before us, lying shroud-like in its pressed stillness, was a garment, once white, but now yellowed by time. A pointed cap and an ancient unfolding fan of thin wood lay on top. It was the sacred robe which was used when the daimyo, or his representative, officiated as high priest in the temple dedicated to his ancestors and was believed to possess heavenly power. My grandmother had told me that once, when it was worn by my great-grandfather, a miracle had been performed beneath the shadow of its widespread sleeve.

We gazed only a moment, then the box was silently closed. Neither Sister nor I spoke of it again, but I knew that she felt, as I did, that we had been a little daring in lifting the lid of this box, which, in ancient days, was always kept in the holy room, even the entrance hall of which was never profaned by woman’s foot. I had grown away from my childhood faith in these things, but not entirely away from the influence of memory; and thoughts, beautiful and solemn, were crowding my mind when there came a sudden “bang!” from one of the heavy, swinging windows. They were always closed from the outside by a servant with a long pole, and evidently were being shut this time by someone who did not know that we were still there.

Maa! Maa! It is late. Make haste, I inhospitably beg you,” laughed Sister; and we all scrambled down the narrow stairs and out of the door, hearing the windows bang one after another behind us, shutting the godown, with all its treasures, into darkness.

XXXII

The Black Ships

The night before we sailed my Tokyo uncle called, bringing with him a package of “friendship ribbons” for the children⁠—those frail, dainty, quivery strips that bind the hands of friends between deck and dock at the moment of starting⁠—and parting.

“I’ll hold a pink one for Toshiko and a blue one for Kuni San,” cried Chiyo, as the bright-coloured rolls tumbled out of the package, “and a white one for my teacher and a purple one for⁠—for you, Uncle Tosa! Two of the most beautiful for you, of any colour you choose!”

“I’ll hold a whole bunch of red and white ones for all Japan!” said Hanano. “Love, much love, and goodbye; for I’ll never come back. I love everybody here, but I’m going to stay forever with Grandma in ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ ” and she softly hummed the tune as she slipped away, her face full of light. Ah, how little she dreamed that in years to come she would return⁠—more than once⁠—and always with a heart full of double loyalty: half for the land of her birth and half for the land of love, where were husband, children, and home.

Hanano and Chiyo had gone to bed, and I was attending to the last scattered duties of the packing when Sudzu lifted a folded shawl to lay on top of the tray before closing a trunk.

“This is rather loose,” she said. “A cushion would exactly fit; but how ridiculous it would be to carry to a great country like America just an ordinary cushion that we sit on.”

She did not know that in the bottom of my trunk of greatest value was something which, until I had seen it in Sister’s godown, I had never dreamed could be anywhere except beside the familiar firebox in the room of Honourable Grandmother. It was a square, flat cushion of blue brocade, old and somewhat faded.

I was alone when I wrapped it for its long journey, and, as my hands passed over the silken flowers, my mind went back⁠—back to the day when a little black-haired girl in wooden clogs clattered through the big gateway and, hurrying her polite bows of greeting to the family, spread out before her grandmother, who was seated on this very cushion, a large, flat book.

“Honourable Grandmother,” she said, pointing to a coloured map of the world, “I am much, much troubled. I have just learned that our beloved land is only a few tiny islands in the great world.”

The grandmother adjusted her big horn spectacles and for a few minutes carefully studied the map. Then with slow dignity she closed the book.

“It is quite natural, little Etsu-bo, for them to make Japan look small on this map,” she said. “It was made by the people of the black ships. Japan is made large on the Japanese maps of the world.”

“Who are the people of the black ships?” asked the little girl.

“They are the red barbarians who came uninvited to our sacred land. They came in big, black ships that moved without sails.”

“I know. Ishi sings it to me”; and her shrill little voice chanted:

“They came from a land of darkness,
Giants with hooked nose like mountain imp;
Giants with rough hair, loose and red;
They stole a promise from our sacred master
And danced with joy as they sailed away
To the distant land of darkness.

“I wonder why they were called ‘black ships.’ Do you know, Honourable Grandmother?”

“Because far out on the waters they looked like clouds of black smoke rolling nearer and nearer, and they had long, black guns that roared. The red barbarians cared nothing for beauty. They laughed at the Japanese boats, whose sails were made of rich brocade and their oars

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