Okimi looked at the swelling iris, and the pure, delicate cherry-blossoms on the silk, and Buddh, sitting cross-legged above his dough-cakes.
"Yes," said Okimi, "you can see it everywhere."
"Can you feel it?"
The breeze came creeping in, sweet with the scents of the green world, and stirred Okimi's sleeve.
"Yes," she answered, "everywhere you feel it."
"And hear it?" asked Misao, wondering.
A cock crowed bravely in the yard, and there came a burst of distant, childish laughter.
"And hear it everywhere," said Okimi, and she began to hum: "White is all the cherry-garden."
"This love must be a strange thing," said Misao sleepily, curling up on the cushions. "I do not understand it. Why cannot I see it, and hear it, and feel it, if it is everywhere?"
So Okimi hid in her room and sewed away, day after day, till she sewed a hole into the end of her little pink finger. Jiji San discovered it and demanded an explanation.