But the monotony of repetition brought rest, and soon Yuki Chan,
forgetting to count, made a bed of the fallen petals and turned her
face toward the little straw-roofed house from which noises of busy
preparation came.

It was a birthday. Not Yuki Chan's, for that came with the snow-time.
This was the third day of the third month, which in the long ago was
set apart as the big birthday of all little girls born in the lovely
island, and was celebrated by the Festival of Dolls.

Yuki Chan lay with her slim body stretched in the warmth of the sun.
In every graceful line was the imprint of high breeding; her white
face, so unusual with her race, was stamped with the romance and
tragedy of centuries; while her eyes, limpid and luminous, looked out
at the world with eager, questioning interest.

Through the wide-open _shoji_ of the house she caught glimpses of
her father and mother hurrying and holding consultations. She marked
frequent visits to the old warehouse that held the household
treasures, and the bringing out of bundles wrapped in yellow cloth.
The air brought her whiffs of cooking food, and the flower- and
fish-men deposited a fair part of their stock on the porch. But Yuki
Chan was banished from these joys of preparation because of naughtiness,
and as she lay in the warm sunshine she thought of her recent
wickedness. She smiled as she remembered how she had hid her father's
pipe that he might work the faster, and broken the straps of her
mother's wooden shoes, so that she could not go outdoors. She laughed
softly when she thought of the stray cat which she had brought into the
house and coaxed to drink milk while she, with skilful fingers and a