MY JAPANESE WIFE.
175
When she hears me she comes out, half fearing lest I should treat her orisons with ridicule.
“Him hear,” she says, pointing and nodding in the direction where the idol sits solemnly, in a halo of yellow light from the little earthen-ware lamp. “Missus”—she has mastered the word, and uses it with infinite care—“velly much better.”
“Yes,” I reply.
And who knows, Oka’s wife, perhaps your prayers offered in good faith have reached ears that are not deaf, and have brought an answer from “the God of the English sir,” I say to myself.
