“I am afraid,” she said, simply—“afraid to leave the land of gods and go out into the unknown. It is the unknown that has such horror for me. And the great seas are flat and bottomless. I could not have courage to cross them unless I were forced to do so.”
“But you would not be afraid to cross them with me, would you, little one?”
“No—not with you, Koma,” she said, looking into his eyes.
Leaning across, he took one of her little hands, held it a space between both his own, then lifted it to his lips.
“Never was there such faith as yours, and in one—one who is not worthy to touch you.”
“When you talk like that, Koma,” she said, with tears in her voice, “you make me sadder still, because when I am gone from you I must recall those words.”
“Then if such words make you sad, I will not speak them again. Nothing but joy and sunshine should dwell in your face. So let us talk of happier things. See how near to the shore we are coming. Shall we land?”
“No. Let us drift on.”
“Look how the sunbeams are gliding down the pine trunks. See how they, too, have tinted the green leaves to gold.”
“There are no—no pine-trees in America. No more—And there are no sunbeams there. The sensei told me so.”