From that hour she was not seen to weep. She performed, lightly and silently, as in former days, the gentle duties of a daughter.
Seasons passed; and her father thought to find another husband for her. To the mother, he said:
"If our daughter again have a son, it will be great joy for her, and for all of us."
But the wiser mother made answer:
"Unhappy she is not. It is impossible that she marry again. She has become as a little child, knowing nothing of trouble or sin."
It was true that she had ceased to know real pain. She had begun to show a strange fondness for very small things. At first she had found her bed too large—perhaps through the sense of emptiness left by the loss of her child; then, day by day, other things seemed to grow too large—the dwelling itself, the familiar rooms, the alcove and its great flower-vases—even the household utensils. She wished to eat her rice with miniature chopsticks out of a very small bowl such as children use.
In these things she was lovingly humored; and in other matters she was not fantastic. The old people consulted together about her constantly. At last the father said:
"For our daughter to live with strangers might be painful. But as we are aged, we may soon have to leave her. Perhaps we could provide for her by making her a nun. We might build a little temple for her."
Next day the mother asked O-Toyo:
"Would you not like to become a holy nun, and to live in a very, very small temple, with a very small altar, and little images of the Buddhas? We should be always near you. If you wish this, we shall get a priest to teach you the sutras."