“But, my son, she is very ill.”
“She should have stayed at the honorable tavern. We do not keep a hostelry.”
Aoi sighed.
“Well,” she said, hopefully, “let us bear with her for a little while and afterwards—”
“We will turn her out,” quickly finished the boy.
“We will entreat her to remain,” said Aoi. “It would be proper for us to do so. But the stranger will not be lacking in all courtesy. She will not remain.”
They had reached their home. Now they paused on the threshold, the mother regarding the son somewhat appealingly, and he with his sulky head turned from her. Aoi pushed the sliding-doors apart. A gust of wind blew inward, flaring up the light of the dim andon and then extinguishing it. The house was in darkness.
Suddenly a voice, a piercing, shrill voice, rang out through the silent house.
“The light, the light!” it cried; “oh, it is gone, gone!”
Koma clutched his mother’s hand with a sudden, tense fear.