He went his way to the station, leaving behind him thoughts sadder than death can bring.

When I told Jane what we were to expect her pale eyes were almost drowned. She looked frail and tired, but from somewhere a smile made rainbows of her tears.

"Don't give up, Miss Jenkins. No use crying over cherry blossoms before they wither. Kobu's human enough to be mistaken. Detectives aren't so smart. Sometimes they tree a chipmunk and think it's a bear."

It was the nearest I'd ever heard Jane come to a criticism, and I knew she felt deeply to go this far.

Zura listened quietly to what I had to tell. But her eyes darkened and widened. "You mean they are coming to take Page away?"

"Yes; as soon as he is strong enough."

"Then I am going with him."

"Go with him? You, a young girl, go with a man who is in charge of an officer? It's impossible. I pray God it's not true, but if the law can prove that Page has sinned, he will have to pay the penalty in prison. You can't go there."

"No, but I can wait outside, and be ready to stand by him when he is released. No matter how guilty the law declares him, he is still the same Page to me. He's mine. I belong to him. Did not my own mother think home and country well lost for love? She knew her fate and smiled while she blindly followed. I know mine, and there is no other path for me but by the side of Page. Whatever comes I've known his love."

It was not the raving of a hysterical girl; it was the calm utterance of a woman—one of the East, who in recognizing the call of her destiny unshrinkingly accepts its decrees of sorrow as well as of joy. By training, environment and inclination Zura Wingate might be of the West; but her Occidental blood was diluted with that of the East, and wherever is found even one small drop, though it sleep long, in the end it arises and claims its own as surely as death claims life.

It was only a little while since Kobu had left us to go to the station to bring the unwelcome visitor from America.

The hills had scarcely ceased the echo of the shrieking engine, it seemed to me, when I heard the tap of the gong at the entrance. I started at once for Page's room where Zura and Jane were on watch.

Kobu and his companion were ahead of me. The brilliant light of a sunny afternoon softened as it sifted through the paper shoji, suffusing room and occupants in a tender glow. Through it, as I reached the door, I saw Zura half bending over the bed, shielding the face of the sick boy, Jane at the foot with lifted, detaining hand, Kobu's face as he pointed to the bed, saying, "There, sir, is the thief—I mean prisoner," and his startled look as the tall, gray-headed stranger went swiftly to the bed and gathered Page into his outstretched arms.

"A thief!" he cried. "Somebody's going to get hurt in a minute. He's my son. Oh! boy, boy, I thought I'd lost you!"



XIX

"THE END OF THE PERFECT DAY"

Jane was the first in that astonished group to recover, and her voice was as sweet and clear as a trumpet-call of victory, singing her gladness and trust: "I knew it! I knew it! But who are you, sir? Page said his father was dead."

"I? My name is Ford Page Hamilton, and this is my boy. I've been looking for him for months."

Page's eyes intently searched his father's face, as alternate fear and joy possessed him. The moment was tense; we waited breathlessly; at last Page asked: "But, Father, what did I do with them?"

"With what, son?"

"The bags of money—the collection I was to turn over to the firm."

"You delivered them sealed and labeled, then you disappeared off the map, just as if you had melted."

The word "melted" seemed to open in the brain of the invalid a door long closed. A sleeping memory stirred. "Wait! It is all coming back! Give me time!" he pleaded.

It was no place for a crowd. I took Zura by the hand, pulled Jane's sleeve, motioned Kobu toward the door, and together we went softly away.

* * * * *

An hour later, when Mr. Hamilton came in, the happiest spot in all the Flowery Kingdom was the little living-room of "The House of the Misty Star."

Page was asleep through sheer exhaustion, and the father, with lowered voice and dimmed eyes, told the story.

The explanation was all so simple I felt as if I should be sentenced for not thinking of it before. For had I not seen what tricks the heat of the Orient could play with the brain cells of a white man? Had I not seen men and women go down to despair under some fixed hallucination, conjured from the combination of overwork and a steamed atmosphere—transforming happy, normal humans into fear-haunted creatures, ever pursued by an unseen foe? In such a fever-racked mind lay all Page's troubles.

For the last four years he had held a place of heavy responsibility with a large oil concern in Singapore. His duties led him into isolated districts. Danger was ever present, but a Malay robber was no more treacherous an enemy than the heat, and far less subtle. One day, after some unusually hard work, Page turned in his money and reports, and went his way under the blistering sun.

It was then that the fever played its favorite game by confusing his brain and tangling his thoughts. He wandered down to the docks and aboard a tramp steamer about to lift anchor. When the vessel was far away the fateful disease released its grip on his body. But in the many months of cruising among unnamed islands in southern seas, it cruelly mocked him with a belief he had purloined the money and taunted him with forgetfulness as to the hiding place.

When Page left the ship at a Japanese port memory cleared enough to give him back a part of his name, but tricked him into hiding from a crime he had not committed.

My remorse was unmeasurable as I realized the whole truth, but my heart out-caroled any lark that ever grew a feather. The boy's soul was as clean as our love for him was deep.



"You see," continued Mr. Hamilton, "Page's mother died when he was only a lad, and my responsibility was doubled. When his regular letters ceased I cabled his firm for information. They were unable to find any trace of him. He had always been such a strong, sturdy youth I could not connect him with illness. Fearing he had been waylaid or was held for ransom I offered the reward through my Chicago bankers. The months at sea of course blocked us. The suspense was growing intolerable when the information came from Mr. Kobu; that brought me here."

All this time the detective had been silent. But no word or look of the others escaped him. At last the thing was forced upon him. He had missed the much-wanted cashier whose capture meant a triumph over the whole detective world. And he had been so very sure Page was the man! Descriptions and measurements were so alike. Both from the same city, one with the name of Hamilton, the other with that of Hammerton.

As Page's father remarked when he heard the story: "Mr. Kobu, those names are enough alike to be brothers, though I'm glad they are not."

But Kobu was not to be coaxed into any excuse for himself. Any one who knew him could but know the humiliation he would suffer at mistaking the prize. Even a big reward was slight balm to the blow at his pride. Intently he watched and listened until the details were clear to him. He could not understand all this emotion and indulgence in tears which were good only to wash the dust from eyes. But Kobu was truly Japanese in his comprehension of a father's love. He masked his chagrin with a smile and paid unstinted praise to the man who had tirelessly searched for his only son. With many bows and indrawings of breath the detective made a profound adieu to each of us and took his leave.

As the sound of the closing lodge gates reached us something in Jane's attitude caught my attention. In her eye was the look of a mischievous child who had foiled its playmate.

"Jane, what is the matter with you?" I asked.

"I was just feeling so sorry for Mr. Kobu. He is awfully nice, but I could not tell him. I knew!"

"What?" I demanded.

"Oh, I knew dear Page was not the gentleman who borrowed the bank's money."

"Knew it! How did you know?"

"Because a little while ago that nice cashier gentleman from Chicago sought shelter in the Quarters. I heard his story. He was the hungriest man for home cooking I ever saw. I gave him plenty of it, too, and a little Testament besides, before he left."

"Why, Jane Gray! you knew this and did not tell?"

"Yes, Miss Jenkins; that is what I did. You see I am a sort of father confessor. I simply cannot furnish information about the dear people who confide in me. I would have saved Page, but when I came home and found him ill something told me to give both men a chance. I knew Page was not guilty. The same thing that made me sure of my hospital made me certain he would get well. The other man—well, you know, I am only a messenger of hope. I wanted to give him time to read that little book!"

I was dumb with astonishment.

"Upon my word," remarked Mr. Hamilton after an eloquent pause, "as a soul diplomat you give me a new light on missionaries! Everything is all right now. I have found my son, and, if I know the signs, a daughter as well. She is a picture in her nurse's dress. Tell me about her."

I turned to look for Zura, but she was no longer in the room.

Leaving the delighted Jane in a full swing of talk about Zura, I withdrew and crossed the passageway. The paper doors of the sick chamber were wide apart, and once again I saw outlined against the glow of the evening sky two figures. The girl held the hands of the man against her heart, and through the soft shadows came low, happy voices:

"Ah, Zura, 'I sought for thee and found thee!'"

"Belovedest," joyously whispered the girl, bending low. Darkness, tender as love itself, folded about them, and I went my peaceful way.

* * * * *

Two long-to-be-remembered months passed swiftly. On the wings of each succeeding hour was borne to Page the joy of returning health, to the other members of my household the gladness of life we had never before known. Mr. Hamilton remained, waiting to take back with him, as one, Page and Zura. In the fullness of her joy Zura was quite ready to forgive and be forgiven, and said so very sincerely to her grandfather.

Kishimoto San replied in a way characteristic. He said the whole tragedy was the inevitable result of broken traditions and the mixing of two races which to the end of eternity would never assimilate. He had washed his heart clean of all anger against her, but his days were nearing a close. He had lost the fight and for him life was done. Oblivion would be welcome, for after all

"What of our life! 'T is imaged by a boat: The wide dawn sees it on the sea afloat; Swiftly it rows away, And on the dancing waves no trace is seen That it has ever been!"

Jane's hospital was soon completed, and I could no longer resist the sincere pleadings for her to be allowed to live in the quarters once again. "My people are calling, and, though I am a frail and feeble leader, I must give all my time to them and help them to find the way back home and sell their souls for the highest price."

Without protest I let her go. I had no word of criticism for Jane. Every soul is born for a purpose—some to teach, others to preach, and all to serve. Miss "Jaygray" more than justified her calling and her kind. Her simple faith had made many whole.

* * * * *

Once again the Spirit of Spring held the old garden in a radiance of color. Once again the bird from the spirit land called to its mate and heard the soft thrill of the answer. The singing breeze swayed the cloud of cherry bloom, sending showers of petals to earth, covering the grim old stone image, making giant pink mushrooms of the low lanterns.

How lonely a thing would have been the Spirit of Spring had it not walked hand in hand with the Spirit of Love!

In the white moonlight sifting through the pines I saw Page and Zura in my garden on their last night in old Japan—destinies, begun afar, fulfilled beneath the shadows of the smiling gods.

"But think what love will do to them both," had once said the foolishly wise little missionary.

And now it has all come to pass.

Once again I am alone, yet never lonely, for my blessings are unmeasured. I have my work. I have love, and The House of the Misty Star holds the precious jewel of memory.



THE END

Transcriber's notes: Quotation marks normalised.