Sado-ko did not stir, though she looked with wide eyes toward the sliding door through which came her maiden Natsu, holding carefully above her head a lighted andon. She had not seen the little figure by the shoji, and she shuffled toward the couch. A startled exclamation escaped her when she discovered that the couch was empty. At that the princess called to her in a strange voice, which seemed somehow unlike her own.
“I am here, honorable maid.”
The woman hastened forward, the light still swinging over her head. She stopped aghast before the still little figure of the princess, who was, she could see, fully dressed. It was plain that the child had robed herself with her own hands, after she had left her for the night.
The maid set the andon down, then touched the floor with her head. After her obeisance she went nearer to Sado-ko, and spoke with the familiarity which years in the child’s service had allowed her.
“Thou art not unrobed, noble princess!”
“I have not slept,” said the child, quietly.
The maid seized her hands with an exclamation of pity.
“The hands are like ice!” she exclaimed immediately. “Exalted princess, you are ill!”
“No,” said Sado-ko, shaking her head, “I am not ill, Natsu-no. But tell me your mission. Why do you come so early to my chamber?”
There was nothing childlike now in the grave glance of Sado-ko’s eyes. She seemed to have aged over night. At her words the maid burst into tears, beat her hands against her breast, and finally bent her head to the floor. The princess waited in silence until the maid had regained somewhat of her composure. Then she said severely, quite in the manner of her august grandparent:—