He took the student’s welcome as an omen and slipped off his sandals. He was ushered in and, after saluting his friend, the temple tea was brought and they sat with it between them and discoursed. The temple tea was not as other tea, but superior. It was a powder made of the tenderest of the young leaves of certain choice plants. It possessed the secret flavors of spring, and the property of making the mind glow and the brain crystal clear without racking the nerves. They talked for a time, but to Caswell it was with an effort. His soul that day had no meeting with his friend, and the priest was aware of it. He produced tobacco and they lit the little pipes and, inhaling a few whiffs, sat in silence. Presently Caswell turned his head to listen. Through the paper screen which made the partition wall, he heard the girl’s voice; then the voice of her aunt. They were entering the room next. “It is a party of foreigners,” observed the priest. “They have doubtless been generous to the boy. Liberal foreigners are sometimes invited to partake of the temple tea. The tea money (_chadai_) goes to the restoration fund.” “Is it so?” said Caswell. He was listening. “I am afraid that I never could get used to sitting on my feet,” said her aunt. “Poor auntie!” said the girl, and then she laughed, and as she laughed Caswell held his breath. It was a low, sweet, bubbling laugh; the laughter that is compelled by happiness in the heart, just as a fountain bubbles under a pressure of crystal water. A moment later came the deeper tones of a man’s voice, also laughing, and the echo of the same happiness was in them. Caswell smiled and a mist came into his eyes. He understood. He looked at the old priest, and he too was smiling. “The young foreign lady has an agreeable voice,” observed the priest. “Unlike most.” “Unlike most who travel here,” said Caswell, “she is of an honorable family.” “Friends, no doubt, of your honorable family,” suggested the priest. “No,” said Caswell. He realized that he did not even know her name. “But I know,” he continued. “One may know by the voice and the speech.” “Assuredly, with us,” said the priest, “but I had thought that all families in America were equal.” “Yes and no,” replied Caswell, absently. He had no mind for explaining the American system then. He was listening, for they were laughing again, although there seemed no reason for laughter in the conversation. Presently Caswell rose and began his leave-taking, and the priest accompanied him to the porch where he had left his sandals. Beside the sandals they saw three pairs of shoes. There was a pair of heavy men’s walking shoes, a pair of woman’s shoes of the type known as “common-sense,” and a third pair on which Caswell’s eyes rested. These were little Russia leather things, not new but with the workmanship and fine lines of the Oxford Street bootmaker, and they had the air of well-being which comes from proper trees and the care of an expert maid.