name might not die out. Silently she would slip out to the little
shrine and pour out passionate words of prayer that just one little
soul might be permitted to live.

No matter how long the night, nor how bitter the struggle, morning
always found her bright and cheerful, bending every effort to invent
new diversions for her husband. She labored to anticipate every wish,
and even though she did without, she provided him the best of comfort.
Working far into the night, secretly disposing of her small personal
treasures, acquiescing in his most trivial statements, she planned
that no slightest gap in the domestic arrangement should suggest
itself to him.

The woman worked and prayed and waited. Then she triumphed. In the
wake of a great snow-storm came the longed-for child, and they called
her Yuki, after the snow that had brought them their wish. Hand in
hand with Yuki Chan came love, and bound the hearts of the man and
woman with ties of a desire fulfilled. From that time to this love had
prevailed, and as Yuki Chan climbed on the porch, besmirching its
shining surface with her muddy little feet, that had been guiltless of
sandals all day, the faces of the two old people lighted up with
sudden joy.

Yuki Chan looked ruefully at the muddy prints she had made and
realized that she had been a most impolite little girl. Remembering
her recent resolve, she sought the eyes in which she had never seen
any light for her save that of love. She drew close, and reaching down
took her mother's hand, hard and cracked by labor, and laying her
cheek against it said, with a voice sure of forgiveness and sweet
desire for atonement: