“I have not had the chance,” said Sado-ko, in a stifled voice.
“Why—your voice is strange! What has happened, daughter?”
Sado-ko attempted to recover her composure, fighting against a sense of weakness that overpowered her at the thought that Ohano would penetrate the disguise. What mother would not have done so? she thought with fear. With some bravado she turned and faced Ohano.
“Nothing is the matter,” she declared. “You—you said you had some news to tell me, mother.” She bit her lip at the last word, as the thought came to her that this woman might not be the mother. The words of Ohano reassured her.
“Well, come and sit here,” she said. “I have much to tell.”
When Sado-ko was seated at her side with averted face, the words of the mother became piteous.
“Your mother always was so stupid,” said poor Ohano, “but, Masago, you really are much changed since your return from school. Yet truly—why, I never noticed it before.” She stopped as though to give the girl a chance to speak, but the latter remained silent.
“Now let me see,” said Ohano, “I will tell you from the first of all that happened. I know, Masago, you will be happy at my news. You see, we waited all the day and all the night for him to come and—”
“For him?” said Sado-ko, in a low voice.
“Yes—for Junzo.”