Half expecting this, I wait an instant, and feel as if I were kneeling beside my own grave. But the fantastic little figure I love so well gives no sign of movement. My alarm increases. I get up, hastily push back one of the sliding paper panels, and let in a flood of sunlight from the garden.
It streams full on Mousmé’s face; it seaches out the gold threads in the embroidery of her gown; it tells me in an instant that there is something seriously wrong.
There are no bells in this strange little house of mine, so I beat upon the floor with my heel to summon Oka or his wife.
I wait anxiously, kneeling beside silent little Mousmé. Each second seems to extend itself into an hour. How long it seems—that minute or two ere I can hear some one ascending the rickety stairs from the basement. It is Oka’s wife who en-
