And Yoné did not move. The _Ijin San_ for whom she worked had told her she ought to take care of her dead daughter’s child and bring it up; but Yoné’s conscience, the conscience of her race, the inherited upbringing of her dead fathers, made her instinctively turn towards the _O Bā San_ in the corner. She could not feed two mouths. Life was hard for Yoné; and the _O Bā San_ had a good appetite though she was so old. So Yoné sat on her heels and sullenly listened to the quavering wail without moving. “If the gods wanted the child to live, why had they let its mother die? Why had its father divorced the little wife ‘for temper’ before the baby was born? It was Fate. And after all the baby was very small and ugly, a little, cross sickly thing that cried. No, it had much better die, much better.” And Yoné got up, and went to get ready the evening rice for the _O Bā San_. As she did so the shadow of the _Ijin San_ herself fell across the floor, and her voice, in very English Japanese, asked after the baby. Yoné was down on her knees in a moment, drawing in her breath through her teeth in long whistles of politeness. “The baby was not well, as the _Ijin San_ could see. It did nothing but cry; and after all what was the use? It had much better die.” The _Ijin San_ sat down on the little platform, the _shōji_ pushed back between her and the room, in consternation. After all she had said the day before, all she had urged, Yoné still clung to that awful idea. The _Ijin San_ had a shrewd suspicion that the old lady in the corner had something to do with Yoné’s idea “it was better baby die.” It would be quite easy for “baby to die” too, and that without much active doing on Yoné’s part. So she sat there perplexed, the baby cuddled up in her arms. Moral persuasions she had tried, and appeals to Yoné’s conscience, her love for her dead daughter, her duty--all in vain. And she looked down at the queer little atom in its bright red _kimono_, with the wide flapping sleeves, wondering whether it would look quite so odd dressed like other babies, her own for instance, and she smiled. It was a last chance any way. “Yoné,” she said, holding up the baby. “How would you like to see him dressed like the _Bot’chan_.” “Hē,” cried Yoné, turning round, her vanity awake in a moment. “Well, if you’ll take care of him, I’ll dress him in foreign clothes, and he’ll look just like the _Bot’chan_.”