was the landlord's niece, an orphan Cinderella, condemned by destiny to wait on her uncle's guests. While her better-looking sisters had found husbands, she trotted contentedly about her work, laughing a great deal and singing snatches of song. She was about four feet ten inches in height; her face was too large and too round, though this fault was somewhat redeemed by fine teeth and soft eyes. She tried to atone for plainness of feature by elaborate coiffure and punctilious toilette; but, do what she would, she could not escape from the category of ordinary squat village girls, who remain at home while their prettier neighbours fill the tea-houses and geisha-houses of Tōkyō. Her parents must have had excellent judgment, for instead of calling her Lily or Chrysanthemum or some other flower-name whose irony must have pursued her to the grave, they hit upon O Maru (Miss Round), an unromantic but felicitous description of her person and character. She had no angularities, moral or physical, but was just an elastic, docile ball of Japanese womanhood, both useful and playful; one of those domestic conveniences which Confucian moralists regard as admirably adapted to promote the peace and happiness of man.
From the moment of René Beauregard's entrance until his departure from Ishinomaki, O Maru devoted herself to his service. While his illness lasted she sat beside him, bathing his forehead and anticipating his desires. When he grew well enough to take part in the expeditions which I proposed to neighbouring temples or islands, she was waiting with his shoes and hat on the threshold, bowing low as he went out; and, when he returned for the evening bath, she attended him with towel and soap, as assiduously and with as
