“Yes, two in seven,” he responded, so gloomily that she laughed outright.
“Greedy!” she cried. “Know you not that the avaricious man prepares his own downfall? How much better are two days than none, as it has been so long?” She held up her slender fingers and made as if to count the years he had been away. “And for the other days,” she went on, “there are paper and ink and brushes, when one knows how to write.”
She was too happy at her new discovery of him to let so small a matter as this conjure up clouds. He caught the contagion and her smile chased away his frown.
“Good thought!” he said. “Now I know why that troublesome art was taught me.”
So, laughing and jesting, they started down the hill. They had almost reached the bottom when a new difficulty arose.
“If I send you a letter,” he said soberly, “will not Kudo-san know it?”
She had thought of that, too, only it did not disturb her.
“In the roof over the gate,” she said, “there is a split in the shingle. Underneath one could easily leave a letter that would never be seen unless someone should look for it.”
But he, more practical, at once objected. It would be tempting fate to leave their letters where any day her father might so easily find them. If he should chance to look over-closely at the gate, or perhaps to have it repaired when a letter was there, discovery would be certain.
“If you do not enter the tiger’s den,” she said, “you cannot catch her cub.”