dah to get a breath of cooler air, she comes close to me, and taking my hand in her pretty I-wish-to-be-protected way, whispers in Japanese, “How strange it will be! Cy-reel, I am a little frightened; I feel like the other night when I was awoke by the nidzoumi scampering across the floor, and squeak, squeaking in the walls.”
Mousmé is like her Western sisters in her fear of mice.
“But I shall be there, Mousmé,” I reply, as she squeezes my hand.
“Yes, Cy-reel;” then with a coquettish smile, which I can see ere we pass out into the gloom of the verandah, “perhaps, perhaps it may be all right.”
It had been raining. Such torrents of rain! Kotmasu had come up to see us through it all. A queer figure in an out-of-date English mackintosh, the rubber as well as the style of which, he had ad-
