“God bless you, O’Kami San,” called Billie, leaning far out of the window.  And if the little Japanese girl did not understand the meaning of the salutation she comprehended the spirit of it.

“Receive thanks,” she said formally, her eyes glistening suspiciously.  Then she gave the Japanese farewell, “Sayonara” (since it must be), and waved her little hands until the train was out of sight.

Billie watched her sadly.  The lines of the five kimonos, which could be distinctly counted where they crossed at her neck, seemed to symbolize the heavy marriage yoke the little bride had slipped so uncomplainingly over her head, and as for that pink silk head band to keep down the horns of jealousy, it might just as well have been an iron band with spikes in it, for all the sentiment and romance it represented.  But little O’Kami San had gone up into the hills to her aged husband, and if she guessed that there was anything brighter and happier than just being an “attentionly wife” to an old man, she never murmured.  No one has ever plumbed the depths of unselfishness and self-sacrifice of the little Japanese wife.

During the last few miles of the journey they left the train and took to jinrikshas.  Along a magnificent avenue they rode, built through a forest of cryptomerias towering one hundred and eighty feet high, some of them with trunks thirty feet in diameter.  They were like the columns of a gigantic cathedral of which the sky was the dome.

After refreshing themselves with tea at their little villa and removing the grime of the journey, the travelers wandered off into the ancient forest, cool and gray and very still, except for the sound of the wind whispering through the pine trees.

Terraced stairways of gray stone climb up the mountainside from temple to temple and court to court.  Over a busy little river hung the scarlet bridge of beauty which no profane foot may ever touch, only the Emperor’s consecrated feet.  No human hand has mended the sacred bridge for nearly three centuries, but it is said to be in perfect repair.

Passing along the temples and shrines that crowded one another on the hillside, they came at last to a row of images of Buddha, innumerable stone statues of the god, his kindly, gentle face almost obliterated by spray from the river and a soft mantle of moss.  There is a tradition which says that no two people have ever counted these images with the same results, and while the others wandered up the next terraced flight of steps, Billie and Mary remained to count the Buddhas.

The loud song of the little river rushing by them dazed their senses and when they reached the end Billie had counted eighty and Mary only seventy-five.

“Let’s try again,” said Billie; once more they followed the interminable line and once more there was a wide discrepancy between the results.

For the third time they started the count, and finally came as near as seventy-eight and seventy-nine; but the act of counting and recounting had a curious effect on their senses.  It seemed to make them very sleepy, or perhaps it was the magic of that ancient place, the monotonous song of the torrent and the cool gray shadows in the depths of the forest where the sun never penetrated.