Bishop! How I desired to meet one! It had been my fancy, ever since I read of the venerable Bishop who threw out candle-sticks to Jean Valjean in Hugo’s book. His name was Myriel. What is my friend’s name? After a man reaches the bishop’s see, his own name should retire from actual service. People call him “Bishop! Bishop!” as if it were a nickname. My bishop had a holy face. “Who is this good man who is staring at me?” I said to myself at first sight, as Napoleon said when he saw Myriel. A young churchman is unnatural. The customarily pessimistic face of the Japanese priest causes aversion. I got what I wanted in my new friend. If I were his daughter, I would comb his silken hair before he goes to church on Sunday. I was glad he was not thin. Ho, ho, ho! He ate meat like anybody else. He would seem holier if he merely bit a crust of bread, and sipped three spoonfuls of tea. After luncheon we strolled through the garden arm in arm. Not a bit I blushed. I was as completely at ease with him as with my papa. He told me of the beauty of Christ. His soft, deep voice was as from a far-away forest. I plucked a few stems of violets. I fitted them to his buttonhole. Such a little thing pleased him immensely. Dear, simple Bishop! I digested what he spoke. I declared that Christianity was the sun, while Buddhism was the moon. The sun is day and life, and the moon night and rest. How can we live without the sun? The moon is poetry. 14th—The sky became low, its colour frowning gray. The winds snarled. December was suddenly calling us. We sat by a snug fire at evening. Its yellow flame suggested a preacher uplifting his hands in prayer. The fire flickered in jollity. “Pachi, pachi, pachi!” The parlour was not lighted. The pictures on the wall were impressive in the firelight. Any woman looks charming at night and by the fireside. I felt happy imagining that I must appear lovely. The fireplace is so dear, like mamma’s lap. Mr. Schuyler brought a chess-board and challenged. I offered me for a fight. I used to play American chess with a Meriken missionary who lived in my neighbourhood. I thought it fun to beat an old man. “Namu Tenshoko Daijingu!” I repeated. The gentleman asked what I muttered. “Never mind! Only a little spell!” I replied in the lightest fashion. The chess-board was placed between us. “Mr. Schuyler, can you sacrifice anything for the game?” “Whatever you please, my little woman!” “Well!” “Well, then!” “Suppose you make Mrs. Schuyler your stake! My uncle will be mine.” “Ha, ha! Very well!” He was a tactician. I fought hard. Alas, my game was lost! My second stake was myself. “It means that I may marry you, doesn’t it?” “As you please, sir!” Iyani natta! He was far superior. Oya, oya, I was a loser again! I looked sadly on my uncle, and said: “Uncle, you cannot return home! We are the property of Mr. Schuyler. Isn’t it really too bad?”