I had been at Ikao a fortnight, and absorbed by new acquaintances, was beginning to forget the very existence of O Maru San, when a long letter from Kose conveyed the surprising intelligence that she had at last joined Beauregard in that pretty little mountain village. Soon after arriving he had been caught in a violent storm on the slopes of Asama-yama, and had contracted severe rheumatism. Unable to walk much and feeling rather lonely, he wrote finally to Ishinomaki, stating that, if she cared to travel so far and become his companion for the remaining month and a half of his stay, he would make all ready for her reception. But, he added, her decision must be prompt and definite. A third and last letter reached him from the Asano-ya. "My niece," wrote the old man, "would like nothing better than to accept your kind proposal. But in the town of Ishinomaki an alliance between an honourable stranger and a humble Japanese girl is looked upon with disfavour. How is it in Kose?" A final telegram—"No difficulties here. If you come, what train?"—evoked the answer: "Start by eight o'clock train to-night." And to his great astonishment she kept her word. One afternoon he saw a horse, bearing two bundles tied to a high saddle, of the protective sort which is used for children in England when they ride donkeys, ascending the glen from Yunosawa. Rain had made the path impossible for rickshaws. One bundle was O Maru, the other her luggage. She had never been on a horse before, and had never taken such a long journey alone by train, but, after two days' travelling in the hottest part of August, there she was, smiling and looking very happy at the sight of Borega Sama. Little by little he discovered the reasons of so many delays and prevarications. The landlord,
