WITH DEATH BESIDE HER “_Go-han wa skoshi mo arimasen_” (“Not another grain of rice, not a grain”). And O Matsu sat back on her heels, the lid of the wooden rice saucepan clutched in her hand. “_Skoshi mo arimasen._” And the grey head, with its cropped hair gathered into a slide behind, bent despairingly over the saucepan. The _O hachi_ was quite empty, O Matsu had eaten the last grain yesterday; she knew that quite well, but the trembling old fingers went on feeling round and round the bare sides of the saucepan, for she was very hungry. All through the long months of the rice famine O Matsu had managed somehow. To-day the empty _O hachi_ lay on the ground while O Matsu sat staring slowly into it. Then Death stared back at her, and she knew it. With a trembling little movement she got on to her feet and moved across the matted floor into the _zashki_. The sun was shining on the rice-paper panes of the _shōji_, and she pushed them back and stood out on the little platform of polished wood, trying to warm herself; but the piercing winter wind made her blackened teeth chatter, and she came in again. In the _hibachi_ the grey ashes were dead and cold, the last stick of charcoal had boiled the water for her tea last night. There was neither fire nor food. O Matsu stood still watching, while Death and his Shadow grew, as a ghost in the twilight. Slowly the familiar walls, the matted floor, the half-opened _shōji_ insisted that the house was yet unswept, the first duty of a housewife still undone; and with a painful effort O Matsu went and fetched the bamboo broom that swept the matting, and the damp cloth to polish the platform. The broom felt heavy to the weak old hands, and the task of polishing the platform almost beyond her strength; so she worked on slowly, stopping often, for hunger made her faint, but always going on again. At last, _zashki_ and platform finished, she crept back into the kitchen, longing to rest. The empty _O hachi_ lay on the floor. She made a great effort, and, picking it up, carried it outside to scrub, for cleanliness is a supreme duty in Japan. When she came back she put the freshly scrubbed _O hachi_ in its place. Then she sat down. There was nothing more to do. The house was as clean as a house could be. O Matsu was inexpressibly weary, and the desire for food was almost beyond control. Instinctively she wandered back to the empty _O hachi_ and took off the lid. The copper bands, dim and splashed with the washing, caught her eye. It seemed to her the hardest thing of all her life to go and fetch her little cloth and sit down to polish them, but she did it. And Death and his Shadow sat down at her side. Somehow as she rubbed, two tears gathered in the dim old eyes, and rolled down the withered cheeks. O Matsu dropped the cloth, and holding the long sleeve of her _kimono_ before her face, sat still and wept.