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Azalea sighed and, sitting on the church steps, looked at the fortunate boys with envious and wistful eyes.

“And does not the white beast want females also to sing?” she asked.

“Females!” repeated one of the boys. “Did the gods ever favor females?”

“The foreign devil is not a god,” said Azalea thoughtfully. “Who knows, perhaps he would pay me also to sing with him.”

“Time to go home,” said Koto, and she pulled Ume’s sleeve. “Are you not hungry? Come, Azalea!”

“She won’t give me to eat, my most honorable mother-in-law,” said Azalea. “I need not go there.”

“You will soon be a beggar, too, Azalea,” laughed Koto, “and the white man will give you charity. But come, girls.”

Clinging to each other’s hands and almost tripping over each other’s heels, the three girls fluttered homeward down the hill, leaving Azalea sitting alone, looking moodily and reflectively at the choir boys, now counting their money. She knew that they, like her, were orphans. Unlike her, they had not an uncharitable roof, called by her ungracious step-parent a home for her. Shelter beneath it was only grudgingly accorded, because Azalea’s step-mother was vain and feared the criticism of neighbors and the wrath of the gods should she turn Azalea out. As it was, the young girl was only half fed and her clothes were those half-worn ones thrown to her by arrogant and fortunate step-sisters, yet the girl’s nimble fingers made those same threadbare garments objects of attractiveness, which set off her own appealing beauty. But she was seventeen, unmarried and unhappy. Something must be done soon, or she would become the bride of the river. Her step-mother’s scoldings grew with the girl’s increasing beauty and grace. She did not know this was the cause, only she knew life was becoming unbearable.