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Updated: June 26, 2025
Unless it was between husband and wife, private conversation, or a promenade just for two branded the participants as bold, possibly evil. I asked for further details. Kishimoto San said the young man was a minor officer on the steamer by which his granddaughter and her mother had crossed the Pacific. He thought he was an American.
From the atmosphere, all concerned needed not only good luck, but something the color of sunshine; one look into Kishimoto San's face assured me it was neither springtime nor rosetime in the path he was treading.
I had dwelt too long in the Orient, though, to hear with much peace of mind the girl's name so freely used and I discouraged the talk. Even if I had thought it best to do so, there was no chance for a repetition of my visit to Kishimoto San's house. The demands upon my time and my resources were heavier than ever before. The winter had been bitterly cold.
It took us some time to make our way to the building where Kishimoto guided us that he with his family might first offer their devotions. Once there, the ceremony began. I was not expected to participate and stood aside.
"American women smoke and drink in public or other places! Certainly not," I declared emphatically. "Why do you hint at such a thing?" Thirty years' absence from my country had glorified my ideal of its womanhood. "Only this," said Kishimoto San, "several times while in Yokohama I had occasion to visit the Ocean Hotel.
Then give thanks and still more thanks, that to you and to me, the beautifulest land the good God ever made spells home, and friends, and America! Amen." More and more Zura had assumed the duties of our housekeeping. The generous sum Kishimoto San promptly forwarded each month for her maintenance so relieved the financial pressure that I was able to relax somewhat my vigilance over the treasury.
While there the girl lived with his sister who had absorbed many new ideas regarding liberty for women. Once he was absent from Japan and without his knowledge the girl married an American artist, Harold Wingate by name, and went with him to his country to live. Kishimoto San had not seen her since her marriage until lately. He had honorably prayed that he never would.
Then afterwards I examine register and clerk of hotel confirm my thought." "Possibly what you say is true, Kishimoto San, but hasn't it a flavor of littleness to label as a national habit the acts of a few exhilarated travelers? What have you to say of the vast army of American women who could not be forced into doing the things you mention?" "Nothing.
Kishimoto San was a good fighter for what he believed was right, and as a warrior for his cause he had armed himself in every possible way. He had a passable knowledge of English and an amazing familiarity with the Scriptures. He also possessed a knack of interpreting any phase of it to strengthen the argument from his standpoint.
Kishimoto San certainly stated a fact. Her English was strange. I was sure the words were not in my dictionary. But I would not appear stupid before this child who had no business to know more than I did. So I looked a little stern and said that my Sundays never seemed a treat; they were no different from week-days.
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