"He will not come now," said the woman, smiling.
"Can he have grown cold? Oh, how terrible when a mock love comes and leaves ashes and a grave behind!"
"He has not grown cold, dear lord."
"And yet he does not come! What strange mystery is this?"
"He has come! His heart has been always here, here under this willow-tree." And with a radiant smile the woman disappeared.
Night after night they met under the old willow-tree. The woman's shyness had entirely disappeared, and it seemed that she could not hear too much from Heitaro's lips in praise of the willow under which they sat.
One night he said to her: "Little one, will you be my wife—you who seem to come from the very tree itself?"
"Yes," said the woman. "Call me Higo ("Willow") and ask no questions, for love of me. I have no father or mother, and some day you will understand."
Heitaro and Higo were married, and in due time they were blessed with a child, whom they called Chiyodō. Simple was their dwelling, but those it contained were the happiest people in all Japan.