saintly grandmother would not dare touch the sacred things that were used to honour the Shinto gods. She always attended to the Buddhist shrine, but it was Father’s duty to care for the white Shinto shrine. During his absence, Jiya or another manservant took his place, for no woman was worthy to handle such holy things, And yet the great god of Shinto was a woman—the Sun goddess!
That night I was bold enough to ask my father if his honourable mother was an unworthy woman like all others.
“What do you think, little Daughter?” he asked, after a moment’s hesitation.
“It cannot be,” I replied. “You honour her too greatly for it to be true.”
He smiled and tenderly touched my head with his hand.
“Continue to believe so, little Daughter,” he said gently. “And yet do not forget the stern teachings of your childhood. They form the current of a crystal stream that, as it flows through the ages, keeps Japanese women worthy—like your grandmother.”
It was not until long, long afterward, when the knowledge of later years had broadened my mind, that I comprehended his hidden meaning that a woman may quietly harbour independent thought if she does not allow it to destroy her gentle womanhood. The night that this thought came to me I wrote in my diary: “Useless sacrifice leads to—only a sigh. Self-respect leads to—freedom and hope.”
Beyond the wall on one side of our school was a rough path leading past several small villages, with ricefields and patches of clover scattered between. One day, when a teacher was taking a group of us girls for a walk, we came upon a dry ricefield dotted with wild flowers. We were gathering them with merry chattering and laughter when
