“Ha,” he said, “it is as I wished you would feel.”
Then, if he had been an Occidental, he would have kissed his daughter, and heart to heart they would have talked until the matter was settled. But deep and true though affection may be among the Japanese, it finds small show in outward expression, and caresses are signs of weakness.
“I have made no answer,” he went on, after a little. “I had no will to have you marry if you were not ready.”
His hand moved a little as if to touch her arm, and his eyes glistened with unusual emotion.
“I will tell Chukei-san.”
That was all. The incident was ended; but the girl, wiser by instinct than her father, although without experience, marked it for the beginning. What was it that stirred her heart in protest so strangely and so strongly? She did not know. The ghost of some long dead experience, perhaps. The wood dove in the trees behind her called plaintively to its unseen mate. The sun slid down the western heaven and threw his long rays caressingly over her, face to face with a world-old perplexity. Why should she be sad at the prospect for which other girls longed? It was the pleasant homelife with her father, and the deep, quiet home love, she thought at last; life and love that knew no change. That was the way she wished to go on, and with a sudden blaze of anger she hated old Chukei for his unwelcome interference. Gradually her mind recovered its old poise, and she saw the course she would take. Her father’s attitude was her good fortune. As long as he continued in that mood the menace was shorn of its power, and after that—The huge red sun splashed into the flaming sea, and with its parting fire flashing back from her lambent eyes she rose and started down the winding path toward home.
