e--that Hearn blended so deftly in his work--joined hands. Round
the room at the height of about four feet from the floor, bookcases were
placed, filled with books, English most of them--De Quincey, Herbert
Spencer, Barrie, were a few of the names I caught a glimpse of; against
the laths separating the household shrine from the shelves near the
_Butsudan_ rested volumes of Browning and Kipling.

I wondered where the many things that Hearn must have collected, the old
prints, and bronzes, and enamelled ware, he so often alluded to, had
been put away. Above all, where was the photograph of the "Lady of a
Myriad Souls," and the one of Mitchell McDonald that he mentioned as
hanging on the ceiling?

It is customary in Tokyo, we were told afterwards, to warehouse in a
depository or "go-down" (a name derived from the Malay _godong_ given to
the fire-proof storehouses in the open ports of the Far East) all
valuable and artistic objects; the idyllic innocence of Tokyo is a thing
of the past; thieving is rife; it is well also to protect them from
fire, earthquakes and floods.

Above the bookcases all was thoroughly Japanese in character; the
ceiling mostly composed of unpainted wood laths, traversing a delicate
grey ground.

On the wall opposite the guest-room hung a _kakemono_ or scroll-picture
representing a river running quickly between rocks. "The water runs
clear from the heights," was the translation given to us of the Japanese
ideographs in the corner--by Professor Tanabe. It had been a present
from Kazuo to his father.

Two of the younger children now appeared, the third boy Iwayo, we heard,
was away, visiting some of the ships in the harbour; the two we saw were
Idaho, the second son, and Setsu-ko, the little girl.

Presently, I don't quite know how, it was intimated that the dinner-hour
had arrived, and I must confess that the announcement was a welcome one.
Owing to our wanderings in the Tokyo streets, and the lateness of the
hour, our "honourable insides" were beginning to clamour for sustenance
of some sort.

Japanese dinners have been described so often that it is unnecessary to
go into all the details of the one of which we partook at Nishi Okubo
that Sunday afternoon. It was served in the guest-room next Hearn's
study, and lasted well over an hour. To me it was exasperating beyond
measure. My impression is that the Japanese delight in discomfort. They
own a country in which any one could be happy. A climat