Then she was gone. The tables were turned in more ways than one. Jane was counselor and I the counseled, she the comforter and I to be comforted.
In the daughters of Japan lies a hidden quality ever dormant unless aroused by a rough shake from the hand of necessity; it is the power to respond calmly and skilfully to emergencies. In this, as never before, Zura Wingate declared her Oriental heritage. On the tragic morning when I had gone with Page to the Kencho I had left her a singing, joyous girl, her feet touching the borderland of earth's paradise. I returned and found her a woman, white lipped and tense, but full of quiet command. The path to love's domain had been blocked by a sorrow which threatened desolation to happiness and life. Not with tears and vain rebellion did she protest against fate or circumstances, nor waste a grain of energy in useless re-pinings. With the lofty bearing her lordly forefathers wore when going forth to defeat or victory this girl stood ready, and served so efficiently that both nurse and doctors bestowed their highest praise when they told her she was truly a Japanese woman.
So frequent were the demands from household and sick-room that I feared for her strength. I knew she suffered. Rigid face muscles and dark-rimmed eyes so testified; but aside from these some tireless spirit held her far above weariness. Alert to see and quick to perform, under her hand, after a few days, the house settled down into a routine where each member had a special duty. In turn we watched or waited while the heavy, anxious days dragged themselves along until they numbered ten.
In the last half of each night Zura and I watched by Page and wrestled with the cruel thing that held him captive. They were painful, but revealing hours. I was very close to the great secrets of life, and the eternal miracle of coming dawn was only matched in tender beauty by the wonder of a woman's love. It was Zura's cool, soft hand that held the burning lids and shut out the hideous specters Page's fevered eyes saw closing down upon him. It was her voice that soothed him into slumber after the frenzy of delirium.
"Ah," he'd pant, weary of the struggle with a fancied foe, "you've come, my lovely princess. No! You're my goddess!" Then with tones piteous and beseeching he would begin anew the prayer ever present on his lips since his illness. "Beloved goddess, tell me—what did I do with them? You are divine; you know. Help me to find them quick. Quick; they are shutting the door; it has bars. I cannot see your face."
"I am here, Page," Zura would answer. "If the door shuts, I'll be right by your side."
In love for the boy each member of the house was ready day or night for instant service, but vain were our combined efforts to help the fevered brain to lay hold of definite thought long enough for him to name the thing that was breaking his heart. From pleading for time to search for something, he would wander into scenes of his boyhood. Once he appealed to me as his mother and asked me to sing him to sleep. Before I could steady my lips he had drifted into talk of the sea and tried to sing a sailor's song. Often he fancied himself on a pirate ship and begged not to be put off on some lonely island. He fiercely resisted. But his feebleness was no match for Zura's young strength, and as she held him she would begin to sing:
"Before I slept I thought of thee;
Then fell asleep and sought for thee
And found thee:
Had I but known 'twas only seeming,
I had not waked, but lay forever dreaming."
"Dreaming, dreaming," the boy would repeat. "Sweetheart, you are my dearest dream."