He saw her face whitening in the dim light. She tried to part her lips to speak, but no words came. Then she smiled, a smile so full of bravery and love that he almost dropped the light.
“Now I know,” he said, “that you are my own true wife—not foreign to me, but as my wife should be.”
Then she spoke: “Yes, as a Japanese wife would be. Oh, Kiyo, I have understood them. It is not because they do not love their husbands that they do not weep and protest when they must lose them for a glorious cause. It is brave to give up the loved ones freely, willingly.”
He began rapidly to discuss plans for his going, watching her face closely. She bore it all with that brave cheerfulness peculiar to the Japanese woman. Only when he planned the disposition of his fortune in case of his death, did she protest.
“We will not anticipate the worst, Kiyo.”
“Is it not best to do so?” he gently interposed.
“I know it is Japanese,” she said, wistfully, “but I will always look for you to return. In that you can’t make me Japanese.”
“A Japanese soldier never expects to return. His wife gives him up forever. But I, like you, will have the better hope, my wife. I will come back to you.”
“It is a promise,” she said, and for the first time her eyes were full of tears. He took her in his arms and held her closely.
“It is a promise,” he said, solemnly. He wiped the tears away from her eyes.