"Let us not talk of it any more," he continued, noticing her distress and embarrassment. "I will draw your chair back here and we will talk. What will we talk of? Of America—of Japan? Of you—and of myself?"
"My life has been uninteresting," she said; "let us not talk of it to-night,—but tell me about yours instead. You must have some very pretty remembrances of Japan. Eight years is not such a long time, after all."
"No; that is true, and yet one may become almost a different being during that time." He paused thoughtfully. "Still, I have many beautiful remembrances of my home—all my memories, in fact, are sweet of it." Again he paused to think, and continued slowly: "I will also have beautiful memories of America."
"Yes, but they will be different," said the girl, "for, of course, America is not your home."
"One often, though, becomes homesick—let us call it—for a country which is not our own, but where we have sojourned for a time," he rejoined, quickly.
"Then, if Japan is as beautiful as they say it is, I will doubtless be longing for it when I return to America."
A flush stole to the young man's eager face.
"Ah! Miss Ballard, perhaps if you will say that when you have lived there a while, I might find courage to say that which I cannot say now. I would wish first of all to know how you like my home."
The girl put her hands at the back of her head, and leaned back in the deck-chair with a sudden nervous movement.
"Let us wait till then," she said, hastily. "Tell me now, instead, what is your most beautiful memory of Japan?"