by Mitchell McDonald. The one in the shrine was
Kazuo's, presented to him in memory of his father, another was given to
Mrs. Atkinson by her half-sister-in-law that Friday afternoon, the third
had been buried with the writer of _Japan_, beneath his tombstone in the
Zoshigaya Cemetery.

As we stood in the study opposite the _Butsudan_ the ghostly charm, the
emotional poetry, of this vague and mysterious soul-lore that regarded
the dead as forming part of the domestic life, conscious still of
children and kindred, needing the consoling efficacy of their affection,
crept into our hearts with a soothing sense of satisfaction and comfort.

Yone Noguchi, in an account he gives of a visit to 266, Nishi Okubo,
describes the spiritual influence of Hearn permeating the house as
though he were still living. None of the children ever go to bed without
saying, "Good-night, happy dreams, Papa San," to his bas-relief that
hangs in the study.

Morning and evening Mrs. Koizumi, a daughter of the ancient caste,
subscribing to Shinto beliefs, holds communion with the august spirit.
Now she murmured a prayer with folded hands, and then turned with that
gentle courtesy of her countrywomen, and made a motion to us to occupy
the three chairs placed in a row in the middle of the room. Kneeling
down in front of us, she opened a cupboard under the shrine, pulled out
a drawer wherein lay photographs, pictures and manuscripts that had
belonged to her husband, a photograph of Page Baker and his daughter
Constance, and one of "friend Krehbiel with the grey Teutonic eyes and
curly hair"; portraits also of Mrs. Atkinson and her children, one
representing her eldest girl and boy in panniers on either side of the
donkey that had created so much amusement in the establishment--a donkey
being an unknown animal in Japan--when it arrived at Kumamoto. Another
represented the Atkinson barouche, with its pair of horses, coachman and
groom. The mikado's state equipage was the only conveyance, these simple
people told us, they had ever seen to equal its splendour.

It was very cold, and we frigid occidentals sat close to the apology for
a fire, three little coals of smouldering charcoal that lay in the
brazier. One of the ends of my fur stole fell into the ashes; I did not
perceive it for a moment or two, until the smell of the smouldering fur
attracted the attention of the others. Profound silence descended upon
the company as they watched me extinguish it w