University of Virginia Library

V.

On a morning in the month of May, Sakura Sano crept out on deck, and saw the first shadowy outlines of the land of her birth. She had been ill, with a dull heavy fever of the brain. The unnatural strain and excitement which had buoyed her up for months had suddenly snapped, and nervous break- down had ensued.

For many days she had lain in her cabin, staring wide-eyed at the patch of sky and water which swirled tempestuously by her. Her maid, a devoted Frenchwoman, who petted and mothered her as if she were a baby, tried to arouse her from the lethargy into which she seemed to have fallen, but vainly. Events of the past few months revolved and revolved through the girl's tired mind. Far away now from America— ah, farther every day!—slowly all she had suffered there was being forgotten, minimized, obliterated.

At first she had thought with triumph of the success she had achieved, of the wit of the Oriental, as persistently she called herself, which had outmatched that of the cleverest of American statesmen. Oh! How vainly had they breathed their contempt for insignificant little Japan. But they would see! She would show them—aye, point out to Japan all their colossal weaknesses. Like the giant in the scientific jiujitsu[4], whose very bulk and strength constituted his chief frailty, to the agile-footed, dwarfed opponent, so would America be pricked by the despised pigmy in the very heart of her strength.

Thus the fevered thoughts seethed unceasingly through her tangled mind. Then came a period when she would think of individuals—men, women, girls she had known and lived among in America. She would recall this and that incident of the past, and lie there smiling over old, dear memories.

So, at last, she came to think of Anthony Burrows! She could remain there no longer, still and quiet. Like some imprisoned creature, she paced her little cabin,

daring not to show her face outside the room; scarcely daring to look at herself, because the wild-eyed, pale-faced girl who stared back at her from the mirror seemed to accuse her of some secret guilt.

And now at last, in sight of the home of her dreams, rather than her memory, Sakura stood and gazed. Ah, surely not alone to those who have been born under its blessed shadow, Fuji-yama's enchanting beauty holds one in enraptured thrall! There, in the purple air, enshrouded like a goddess of purity, in fleecy clouds of white, the peerless cone stood revealed in all its golden glory. She felt, as she gazed, justified, forgiven, purged of what had lain as heavy on her soul as crime.

“For you!” she whispered, breathless. “Oh, my beloved home- -for you I have done it!”