Beautiful it was to the eye of the fond father. Every letter was printed and loving words misspelled. There were three smudges of ink on the page. One distinct little mark, where a dirty little finger had rested for a moment, pleased him.
“Do you know,” said Mrs. Kurukawa, very earnestly, “I would still be in Tokio if it had not been for the children’s letters. They used to come in every mail—little, soiled epistles of love, all bearing their childish pleas for mother to return. Why, I could not stay away from them. They just drew me back.”
Her husband looked at her fondly.
“What a mother you are!” he said.
“Yes,” said she, “that’s my strongest trait—maternity. I love all children. There’s nothing sweeter in the world than baby arms about one’s neck, baby voices, baby kisses, baby touches. Oh, they are the most precious things in life!”
He looked a trifle injured.
“You think more of babies than of husbands, then.”
She laughed with the tears in her eyes.
“Why, husbands are the biggest babies of all!” she said. “I’ve always felt like a mother to you, you know.”
“You have?”