et. With all the courtesy and dignity of a Spanish Hidalgo did he
receive us, holding out a slim, delicately-modelled hand, and bidding us
welcome in our native tongue, in a voice harmonious and clear as one of
his own temple bells. To take off our foot-gear in so dignified a
presence, and put on the rice sandals offered us by the maid, was
trying; for the little girl had raised her forehead from the matting,
and, with hands on knees, with many bows, had first of all surveyed us
sideways like a bird, and then, gently approaching with deferential
liftings of the eyes and deprecating bows, she took a pair of sandals
from a row that stood close by, helped us to take off our boots and put
on the sandals. We then remarked that she was not at all
unsympathetic-looking, but a nice, chubby, rosy-faced handmaiden. We
hoped devoutly we had no holes in our stockings, and after a
considerable amount of awkward fumbling, got through the ordeal in time
to curtsey and bow to Mrs. Koizumi, who appeared beside Professor Tanabe
on the step above us, softly inviting us to "honourably deign to enter
her unworthy abode."

The best rooms in a Japanese house are always to the rear, and so
arranged as to overlook the garden. We followed our hostess to the
_engawa_ (verandah) leading to the guest-room next to what had been
Hearn's study. The _fusima_ or paper screens separating the two rooms
were pushed back in their grooves, we passed through the opening and
stood within what they called the "Buddha-room." At first I thought it
was so named because of a bronze figure of Buddha, standing on a lotus
flower, with hand upraised in exhortation, on the top of the bookcase,
but afterwards ascertained that it was because of the _Butsudan_, or
family shrine, that occupied an alcove in the corner.

Every one after death is supposed to become a Buddha; this was the
spirit chamber where the memory of the august dead was worshipped.

At last I stood where ate, slept, thought and wrote (for bedroom and
sitting-room are identical in Japan) the author of "Kokoro," "Japan, an
Interpretation," and so many other wonderful books, and I felt as I
looked at that room of Lafcadio Hearn's that the dead were more alive
than the quick. The walls--or rather the paper panels and wood laths
that did duty for walls--were haunted with memories.

I pictured the odd little figure--dressed in the _kimono_ given him by
Otani embroidered in characters of letters or poems--"Su