“They will make an honorable effort,” she said, “to obtain possession of your husband’s body, and he will be given an exalted funeral. ‘He died gloriously for Dai Nippon’ will say all loyal Japanese.”
Mrs. Kurukawa smiled wearily.
“He is not dead,” she said. “Do not, dear Madame Sano, rob me of my hope. I want to be courageous, for while I feel he is not gone truly from me, I do not know what may have befallen him. It may be that he is wounded—sick—tortured—a prisoner. Oh, I cannot bear to think of it!”
“Better, my child,” urged the old woman, gently, “to believe he is at rest. Cherish not false hopes. Ah, had you been a true daughter of Japan, you would have looked for, expected, and even hailed this bereavement, but—”
“Do not reproach me,” cried Mrs. Kurukawa. “My husband would not have done so. Oh, I have tried to be as he would wish me, and—and—I feel that he would have me believe as I do. I know he will keep his promised word. He will return to me.”
XXIV
TWO weeks later the mail for Tokio contained several pathetic epistles. Most of them were written in the wandering, crude, yet peculiarly attractive handwriting of little children. Mrs. Kurukawa read them over and over again, crying softly as she did so.