“You wonder why she is so? “There is one reason that I can tell you. It is because she has a serious job to pick out her husband herself. I don’t think it is fair to blame her growing insipid after marriage. Every one feels tired when a weighty work is done. What would be her doom if she were stupid? An old maid is such a sad sight, like a broken clock, or a cradle after baby’s death. Isn’t it dreadful to have nothing to rejoice in but a customary tea or books? Literary critic is one occupation left for her. Worse than death! “I am pained to state that our brown sisters are extremely behind time. (“There are lots of exceptions, of course, like honourable you and Miss M. G.) “I am talking of common Jap musumes. “Naturally so. “They are like those waiting at the station for the next train. They have only to doze and wait for the footsteps of a matchmaker with a young man. “I am grateful to the Nippon government for stimulating education in women. “But I advise her to imprison all the matchmakers. Then the girls will wake up at once, like one who has everything on her back after papa’s passing. “That is one process to brighten them, I think. “Am I not logical? “Your last tegami questioned me whether the American lady was charming. “Are you attentive to western sea painting? “How does it impress you when you are close by it? Only a jumble of paint, isn’t it? So with Meriken woman! “You should be off half a dozen steps to estimate her beautiful captivation. You would be horrified, otherwise, by her hairy skin. “I love her. “She has no headache like the Japs. (By the way, I will call Japan, hereafter, the country of headache.) She lives in a comedy. “Nothing turns bad in Amerikey. “‘Tragedy To Be a Woman,’ could only be seen on a fiction thrown in a moth-trodden second-hand store. “Police never bother. “Such a deliverance! “I am delighted with my Meriken Kenbutsu. “Sayonara! Yours, “MORNING GLORY” 19th—I forced Uncle to swear to me that he would overlook everything I did, in consideration of my great service in darning his socks. I peeled off my shoes to begin with. I sat like a Turk. “Why do you frown like an Oni in hell?” I acidified my smile. I held my needle and thread suspended in the air, while I said: “What is a Trust?” “Be quiet!” he exclaimed. He didn’t even glance at me, being engaged in writing in the other nook. “Uncle, your hair ought to be curled. I will step in to-morrow morning, and turn it up before you awake. What do you think, Uncle? Oji San!” “Morning Glory San!” He emitted a growl of satanic despotism, and soon resumed his work gracefully. I thought what a scandal if he were penning a love letter to Mrs. Schuyler, junior.