Not a petal of flower. No inviting picture on the wall! I was tired of hearing the artificial greeting, “Irasshai mashi,” or “Honourable welcome,” of the eternally bowing Japanese hotel attendants. But the too simple treatment of ’Merican hotel is hardly to my taste. Not even one girl to wait on me here! No “honourable tea and cake.” 22nd—I need repose. The last few weeks have stirred me dreadfully. I will slumber just comfortably day after day, I decided. But the same feeling as on the ocean returned. My American bed acted like water, waving at even my slightest motion. I fancied I was exercising even in sleep. It is too soft. Nothing can put me at complete ease like my hereditary lying on the floor. I was restless all the night long. I got up, since the bed was no joy. Oh, the blue sky! I thought I should never again see a sapphire sky while I am here. I was wrong. This is church day. The bells of the street-cars sounded musical. The sky appeared in best Sunday dress. I felt happy thinking that I should see the stars from my hotel window to-night. * * * * * I made many useless trips up and down the elevator for fun. What a tickling dizziness I tasted! I close my eyes when it goes. It’s an awfully new thing, I reckon. Something on the same plan, I imagine, as a “seriage” of the Japanese stage for a footless ghost rising to vanish. It is astonishing to notice what a condescending manner the white gentlemen display toward ladies. They take off their hats in the elevator—some showing such a great bald head, like a funny O Binzuru, that is as common as spectacled children—if any woman is present. They stand humbly as Japs to the august “Son of Heaven.” They crawl out like lambs after the woman steps away. It puzzles me to solve how women can be deserving of such honour. What a goody-goody act! But I wonder how they behave themselves before God! 23rd—It is delightful to sit opposite the whitest of linen and—to portray on it the face of an imaginary Mr. Sweetheart while eating. Whiteness is appetising. And the boldly-marked creases of the linen are so dear. Without them the linen is not half so inviting. I was taught the beauty of single line in drawing class some years ago. But now for the first time I fully comprehended it from the Meriken tablecloth. I wished I could ever stay gazing at it. If I start my housekeeping in this country—do I ever dream of it?—I shall not hesitate to invest all my money in linen. I laughed when I fancied that I sat with my husband—where’s he in the world?—spreading a skilfully ironed linen cloth on the Spring grasses (what a gratifying white and green!), and I upset a teapot over the linen, while he ran after water;—then I picked all the buttercups and covered the dark red stain. The minister makes a ridiculous show of himself in the dining-room. His laughter draws the attention of every lady.