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“Daughter,” said the woman, “would you enjoy a trip to Tokyo?”

Azalea looked up quickly; then she answered shortly:

“No.”

Madame Yamada’s eyes narrowed. She controlled her feelings, however.

“What, Azalea! You do not wish to go to Tokyo, where everything is so gay and bright and beautiful?”

Azalea rested her chin upon her hand and looked out from the kitchen shoji across the fields. She did not answer.

“You are becoming old,” said the step-mother. “You will have to earn your living soon.”

Azalea did not move, but her step-mother knew she was listening to her words.

“Here,” she continued, “there is no way in which you could earn money, for you are of samurai descent and your august ancestors would not rest easily should you be reduced to manual labor.”

“Mother-in-law,” said the girl quietly, “you would be ashamed before our neighbors if I were to obtain work here. My august ancestors would feel no shame.”

“What could you do here?”

Azalea looked at her small white hands thoughtfully.

“I could work in the mills,” she said, and added with a girlish sigh, “but it would maim my hands.”