“You are too young, my boy.”
“I can pass for much older,” said Gozo, proudly.
“You are but seventeen,” said his grandfather, quietly.
The boy’s heart heaved.
“Life would be unbearable here,” said he, “with such a change in the family.”
“Do not use such expressions before your young brothers and sisters,” said the grandfather, sternly. “You almost make me think you are unfit to be an elder brother.”
At this Gozo winced and became pale. He had always been proud of his position as the young master of the family.
Then his grandmother spoke, and her words reached the heart of the boy.
“Be not rash, my Gozo. Our dearest daughter, your mother, would have been the first to urge you to filial thought for your father.”
“Grandmother,” cried the boy, “I can’t bear—” He flung his hand across his eyes as though to hide the tears. Now all the children began to weep in sympathy with their big brother. Miss Summer, the daughter of their father’s friend, set up a great wail, declaring between her sobs that never, never, never could she be induced to wash the feet or be the slave of a barbarian woman. For Summer, though but twelve years old, was some day to marry Gozo—so their fathers had said—and in Japan a daughter-in-law is under the command of the mother-in-law.