"But we have no samisen. Yet I can sing—if you ask me—"
"Sing."
"—the song of 'The Moon-and-the-Stork,' which we ourselves made—here—where the moon looked down upon us. See, it knows. It knows you are come. There it passes above the great criptomeria now. And—and—oh, it is an omen of all good! A stork flies over its face. Or it is a branch of the tree? No matter, the omen is the same, Ani-San; all is as it was, is it not?"
"All is as it was, beloved," whispered Hoshiko.
Yoné came diffidently closer at the dear word.
"When I sang that night I was in your arms—"
The arms of Hoshiko closed about the girl at her side almost with violence.
"That is it," she cried happily, nesting there. "Yes, that is quite it. Don't you remember how your violence frightened me until you explained that it was love? And we laughed. Now we are sad. We used to laugh then. And you could not play the samisen because I was in your arms. And I would not get out of them. So that I sang without the samisen that night. Therefore, all will be quite the same if I sing to-night without it. You have not forgotten the Moon-and-the-Stork song?"
"No"—for Arisuga had often sung it to her.
Then she sang:—