ted by her foreign god."

Heedless of the crowds, as if they were not, Zura took her hat, shoes,
and stockings from the adoring small boy who held them and rejoined me.
I glanced around at the family. The women's faces said nothing. To at
least two of them, Zura was a strange being not of their kind and with
whom they had nothing to do. But the look in Kishimoto San's eyes made
me shrink for the fate of the girl.

Laying my hand upon her arm I asked, "Oh, Zura, why did you do it?
Aren't your feet burned?"

"Burned! Nonsense! They are not even overheated. I used some of their
spirit powder, which is plain salt. I did it to prove to myself that all
they teach and do is fakery."

Page joined us, inquiring anxiously, "You are not hurt? I call it
plucky, but very foolish. Didn't you hear me call to you?"

Zura, looking up from fastening her shoe, replied stiffly, "Mr.
Hanaford, once is quite enough for you to interfere with my affairs."

The boy flushed, then smiled, and dropped to the rear.

As she spoke I could but notice her voice was a little less joyous. It
sounded a note of weariness as if her high spirit, though unconquered,
was a bit tired of the game.

In depressed silence our party mingled with the throng on its way to the
shrine where the last tribute was to be paid. The place of devotion was
in a dense grove, isolated and weird. A single upright post held a
frail, box-like contrivance. The inner recess of this was supposed to
hold a relic of Buddha--some whispered a finger, some a piece of the
great teacher's robe; but whatever the holy emblem, both place and
shrine were surrounded with a veil of superstitious mystery and held in
awe. A lonely taper burned before the shrine, dimly lighting a small
opening covered with ground glass and disclosed above a written warning
to all passers-by to stop and offer prayer or else be cursed.

The crowd of worshipers paid tribute, but rather than pass on, lingered
in the shadow, their curious eyes fixed upon the half-foreign girl.

It was splendid for her to brave the fire-god, but no living soul dared
face the Holy Shrine with the scorn Zura's face and manner so plainly
showed. Admiration melted into distrust. They would wait and see the
end.

One by one my host, his mother, wife and daughter passed before the
relic and reverently bowed. Then they stood aside in a silent group,
slightly apart from Page and me. It was Zura's turn. In the face of
Kishimoto San, as