There was the secret wound that was ever sore and bleeding. There was no
son to perpetuate the name. His most vital hope was dead, his greatest
desire crushed, and by a creature out of the West, who not only stole
his daughter but fathered this girl whom no true Japanese would want as
a wife. To a man of Kishimoto San's traditions the hurt was deep and
cruel.

I well understood his sorrow and disappointment. Pity put all my
annoyance to flight. I promised to go to his house and see if I could
help in any way. I did not tell him that I was about as familiar with
young girls from my home land as I was with young eagles, for the
undaunted spirit of that child had aroused all my love of adventure;
and I wanted to see her. Then, too, I was haunted by the picture of a
lonely girl in a strange land, crying out in the night for her dead
father.

I was trembling with new emotion that evening when I brought my invalid
in from the garden, and tucked her into bed.

Kishimoto San had not only offered me a tremendous experience, but all
unwittingly he made it easily possible for me to defy the tradition of
his picture language, and risk Jane Gray as a permanent fireside
companion.




III