XIII
Two days later she again came forth from her hiding-place. He had been aware of her hovering nearness all through the morning, but made no effort to induce her to come to him. One may entrap a wild bird; one cannot make it sing. He knew the course he was taking with her was right; he was exuberantly, boyishly happy at its evident success.
Shyly, trustingly, of her own free will, again she had come to him. On the sensitive questioning face there was scarcely a trace of the wild, impish defiance that had seemed on that first day its only expression. She even smiled tentatively, pleadingly, as though she sought in this wise to win his approval. He spoke to her quietly, as though her presence there were but natural:
“Won’t you be seated?” he said.
She hesitated a moment, sat a moment, rose to her knees uncertainly, and gradually subsided to the mat. Her face was down-drooped, the little white hands folded meekly in her lap.
“You are not Japanese,” said the Tojin-san, gently. It was a simple, clear statement. If she understood anything of his language, it would be plain to her what he meant. A marvellous flush spread over her eager little face. The humid, misty eyes were clear as blue-bells now. A sound like an excited sob, half laugh, escaped her.
“Nipponese?” she said. “No—me? I am—To-o-jin-san!”
Her hands went out to him in a sudden impulsive motion. She moved on her knees nearer to him.
“Ah,” she cried, “speag those words of my father! Thas—beautiful!”