evenings cold and bleak.

It was the custom for every member of my household to assemble in the
living-room after supper for evening prayer. Jane and I, the cook, and
the two little maids were there because we found comfort and joy. Old
Ishi, the gardener, attended because he hoped to discover the witch that
made the music inside the baby organ. At the same time he propitiated
the foreigner's god, though he kept on the good side of his own deities
by going immediately afterwards to offer apology and incense at the
temple.

Often Page Hanaford came in at this hour and quietly joined us.

It was an incongruous group, but touching with one accord the border of
holier things, banished differences of creed and race and cemented a
bond of friendship.

One evening after the service Jane--taking the maids and a heaped-up
basket--went to answer a prayer for daily bread she had overheard coming
from a hut that day. Page and I settled down for a long, pleasant
evening, he with his pipe and book, I with a pile of English
compositions to be corrected. "Change" was the subject of the first one
I picked up, and I read the opening paragraph aloud: "The seasons change
from one to the other without fuss or feather and obey the laws of
nature. All mens change from one thing to other by spontaneous
combustion and obey the universal laws of God."

My companion was still laughing at this remarkable statement and I
puzzling over its meaning when Kishimoto San was announced. I found a
possible translation of the sentence in his appearance. "Spontaneous