She watched the swift moving of the jinrikisha wheels, then she saw Merrit turn at the gate and wave his hat as he joyously called: "Good-by, Yuki San, God bless you!" The girl stood still, her eyes on the empty gate. Like a lonely, hurt child her lip quivered, and she caught it between her teeth to steady it. "Ah, Yuki," cried her mother, "some spirit has wished you harm. A drop of blood rests on your lips." Yuki San drew her hand across her mouth, and lightly answered that maybe a robin had tried to steal a cherry. But to herself she murmured: "My heart bleed for lonely. He _never_ come back." CHAPTER V The following day a host of accumulated duties and various preparations for the first ceremonious visit of the groom-elect kept Yuki San's hands and mind busy, and if sometimes a sob rose in her throat, or her eyes strayed wistfully from her task, she resolutely refused to let herself dwell upon the past. The marriage, which had been dutifully accepted as a matter of course and looked forward to as a financial relief to the entire family, had never held any particular interest for her, but now even the preparations, which had hitherto excited her interest and enthusiasm, found her listless and indifferent. She would be mistress over a great mansion and many servants, and her days were to be spent in arranging for the physical comfort of Saito and the entertainment of his friends. The arrangement had seemed so simple, and so right, and she had been gratified that a desirable husband had been found. But now she could neither understand nor explain to herself her new and strange resistance. She only knew that for the first time in her life there was rebellion against the inevitable. As she rested her tired body before beginning her toilet for the afternoon, she remembered an American teacher at school who had been _in love_ with the man she was soon to marry. She remembered how she had hidden behind the trees to see this young teacher run to the gate to meet the postman, and her own failure to see why these letters should bring such joy. She, with other girls, had spent a whole recess acting this scene amid peals of laughter. Now it all came back to her with new meaning, and it seemed neither strange nor amusing. She leaned her head against the open _shoji_ and looked out into the garden, radiant and beautiful in the high noon of a perfect autumn day. The working world paused in a brief sleep and the music of the garden was hushed, while the insects sought the shadow of green leaves. Peace was within and without, save in the girl's awakening heart. "Ah, Sensei," she murmured through her trembling lips. "Then I make fun for your letter of love. Forgive my impolite. Now I the understanding have."