neither understand nor explain to herself her new and strange
resistance. She only knew that for the first time in her life there
was rebellion against the inevitable.

As she rested her tired body before beginning her toilet for the
afternoon, she remembered an American teacher at school who had been
_in love_ with the man she was soon to marry. She remembered how she
had hidden behind the trees to see this young teacher run to the gate
to meet the postman, and her own failure to see why these letters
should bring such joy. She, with other girls, had spent a whole recess
acting this scene amid peals of laughter. Now it all came back to her
with new meaning, and it seemed neither strange nor amusing.

She leaned her head against the open _shoji_ and looked out into the
garden, radiant and beautiful in the high noon of a perfect autumn
day.

The working world paused in a brief sleep and the music of the garden
was hushed, while the insects sought the shadow of green leaves. Peace
was within and without, save in the girl's awakening heart.

"Ah, Sensei," she murmured through her trembling lips. "Then I make
fun for your letter of love. Forgive my impolite. Now I the
understanding have."

Yuki San chose her toilet for the coming visit with due regard for all
convention. There must be no touch of purple--that being the color
soonest to fade made it an evil omen. She selected an _obi_ of rare
brocade, the betrothal gift of Saito, the great length of which
expressed the hope of an enduring marriage.