“He?” She lost her head a moment. “Likewise,” she continued, “he also travel from home. Perhaps he also marrying with beautiful barbarian leddy. Tha’s whad I dunno.”

“I don’t quite understand,” said her husband. “But never mind. If you don’t like the subject, and it’s plain you don’t, you sha’n’t be bothered with it.”

“Thangs,” she said, gratefully.

On another day, as she sat opening his American mail with her small paper-knife, a picture of a young American girl fell from the envelope. Yuki picked it up, and regarded it with dilated eyes and lips that quivered. It was the first shock of jealousy she had experienced. One of his own country-women then must love him. No Japanese girl would send her picture to any man save her lover.

Her first impulse was to tear the picture across. She did not want him to see it. Perhaps even the pictured face might win him back, she thought jealously. But she did not destroy it. She hid it in the sleeve of her kimono, and for a whole week she tortured herself with drawing it forth from its hiding-place and studying the face whenever she was alone a moment, comparing it with her own exquisite one in her small mirror.

Then conscience, or perhaps natural feminine curiosity to know who her rival was, prompted her to make humble confession to her husband of her theft.

He took the matter gayly, and seemed exuberantly happy at the idea of her being jealous, for she could not well hide this fact from him. He gloated over this apparent evidence of her love for him.

“Isn’t she lovely?” he asked, enthusiastically, pointing to the picture, and then pretending to hug it to him.

“No,” said Yuki, proudly. “Mos’ oogly girl in all the whole worl’. Soach silliest things on her haed. I don’ keer tha’s hat or nod. Flowers, birds, beas’, perhaps, an’ rollin’ her eyes this-a-way—”

“This is my sister,” said Jack, gravely. “I am sorry you don’t like her, Yuki. She’d be just the sort of girl to love you.”