The trip to Nikko had encouraged him. It had been the time of the bishop's regular spring visit and Barbara had welcomed the opportunity to leave Tokyo, which was so full of painful memories. Patricia adored Japan's "Temple Town" and Ware had joined the party there with as little delay as was seemly. In the three days of the poignant mountain air Barbara had seemed to Patricia to be more like her old self. She could not guess the strength of the effort this had cost or the fierceness of the fight Barbara's pride was making. It was sunset when they mounted the steep road to the hotel--a long, two-storied, modern structure, whose gardens and red balconies gave it a subtle Japanese flavor. On one side of the building the ground fell in a precipitous descent to the rocky bed of the river, whose rush made a restful monotone like wind sighing through linden trees. Behind it the height rose abruptly, and up its side clambered a twisting path, from which a light foot-bridge sprang to the upper piazzas. The path led to a shrine a hundred yards above, set beside an old wisteria tree, musical with the chirp of the "silver-eye," and fluttering with countless paper arrows of prayer. Before it were two wooden benches, and from this eyrie one could look down on the hotel with its graceful balconies, and far below the tumbling stream with its guarded red-lacquer arch. Ware walked with Barbara up the path to the foot-bridge. Near its entrance a small stand had been placed and on it was a phonograph, its ungainly trumpet pointing down toward the stretch of lawn. A heavy red-bearded man, in a warm frock-coat, a white waistcoast and a silk hat pushed far back on his head, was laboring over this, and a plump lady stood near-by, fanning her beaming face with a pocket-handkerchief. They greeted Barbara heartily. "Good afternoon," said the husband. "You can't guess what me and Martha are up to, can you?" "The _samisen_ concert to-night?" she hazarded. "Right!" he said. "First crack out of the box, too! I'm going to take a record of it." He tapped the cylinder. "This is a composition of my own. I leave it out here all night to harden, and then I give it a three days' acid bath that makes it as hard as steel. It'll last for ever. Now what do you suppose I'm going to do with the record? I'm going to give it to you." The lady beside him nodded and smiled. "He's been planning it ever since he heard you say the other day that you liked _samisen_ music," she said. "You see," he went on with a laugh. "I haven't forgotten that line of talk your uncle gave me on the train, my first day in Japland. It did me a lot of good. I guess what he doesn't know about it isn't worth telling," he added with a glance at Ware. "He is an authority, of course," said Ware. "Well, I'm an authority, too--on phonographs. And if you'd accept this, Miss Fairfax--" "I shall be _delighted_!" said Barbara warmly. "I shall value it very, very highly."