Often enough, after communing with Masago under the solemn cryptomerias, O'Tei had gone home comforted. There was something consoling and supporting in the low-toned strong voice of the Abbess, in the touch of her firm white hand. Her face was more set and stern than Sampei's, but his kindly eyes looked out from under the shaven brows, and O'Tei could feel almost as if her dear adopted brother was walking hand-in-hand with her as in the good old days. Ah, me, how far away they seemed, those days of five years ago! The gleeful white fawn was a hundred years older, at least, than then, stricken and grievously wounded. Her breast was empty; nobody cared whether she was alive or dead; she loved none, had none to love, and yet there was a longing within that was positive physical pain, to twine her affectionate tendrils around something, and exhale to it the treasures of her sweetness. Alack, what a cycle is this; what a hard and rugged stage in the long journey! What are we to think, when injustice rules paramount?--when we see in this life how many are punished for their virtues, as a set-off to the peculiar manner in which others are rewarded for their vices? On a certain morning, which must now occupy us, our stately lily was lying disconsolate. Acutely suffering, and much perturbed in mind, power of judging and weighing all agog, O'Tei crouched on the mat of her favourite summer-house, watching the swaying waves, yet seeing nothing; on her finely-chiselled features a grey pallor. As a rule, the misery through which her bearers carried her was chary of complaint, for the poor folk had room in their sorrowing hearts for pity for their solitary lady; but on this morning she had come on such a scene of anguish that she stopped her kago and alighted. The housewife was tearing her dishevelled hair, and wringing hands, and writhing her tortured body, while a young family stood grouped around in varied attitudes of woe. What could this mean? The house was of the better kind; there was rice in the brazen pot; unless she was mistaken, it was the dwelling of one of the elders. Yes. It was the dwelling of an elder--was--who never would dwell there more--was dead now, probably. He had dared to go to Ki[^y]oto, and make one of a set of insolent varlets who had presumed to waylay their lord, despite of warnings, and, with brow in dust, present a written prayer. His lord had resented the impertinence, had incarcerated him and his audacious fellows, with a view to making an example of such wretches by an end of exquisite torment. For him it was not so bad, for he would shuffle out of yet another life--one more of that dreary series so many of which have yet to be endured before we reach Nirvana. But what of his wife and family without the breadwinner? Like a faithful spouse, she had borne many children; how now was she to fill their mouths? Would the dear and noble lady vouchsafe to lend a hand, and implore her husband's clemency?