Sometimes she would bring her picture-books and read him wonderful stories in words he did not understand, and show him the pictures of Momotaro, who was born out of a peach and who grew up to be so strong and brave that he went to the Ogres’ Island and carried off all their treasures,—­caps and coats that made their wearers invisible, jewels which made the tide come or go, coral and amber and tortoise-shell,—­and all these things the little Peach Boy took back to his kind old foster mother and father, and they all lived happily forever after.  And in the telling O Sana Man’s voice would thrill, and her almond eyes grow bright, while her slender brown finger pointed out the figures on the gaily colored pages.

Sometimes she would sing to him, in soft minor strains, of the beauty of the snow on the pine-trees, or the wonders of Fuji-San.

And he would pucker his white lips and try to whistle the accompaniment, to her great amusement and delight.

Many were the treasures she brought forth from the depths of her long sleeves, and many were the devices she contrived to amuse him.  The most ambitious achievement was a miniature garden in a wooden box—­a wonderful garden where grasses stood for tall bamboo, and a saucer of water, surrounded by moss and pebbles, made a shining lake across which a bridge led through a torii to a diminutive shrine above.

He would watch her deft fingers fashioning the minute objects, and listen to her endless prattle in her soft, unknown tongue, and for a little space the pain-racked body would relax and the cruel furrows vanish from between his brows.

But there were days in which the story and the song and the play had no part.  At such times O Sana San slipped in on tiptoe and took her place at the head of the cot where he could not see her.  Sitting on her heels, with hand folded in hand, she watched patiently for hours, alert to adjust the covers or smooth the pillow, but turning her eyes away when the spasms of pain contorted his face.  All the latent maternity in the child rose to succor his helplessness.  The same instinct that had prompted her to strap her doll upon her back when yet a mere baby herself, made her accept the burden of his suffering, and mother him with a very passion of tenderness.

Longer and sultrier grew the days; the wistaria, hanging in feathery festoons from many a trellis, gave way to the flaming azalea, and the azalea in turn vanished with the coming of the lotus that floated sleepily in the old castle moat.

Still the soul of the young Russian was held a prisoner in his shattered body, and the spirit in him grew restive at the delay.  Months passed before the doctor told him his release was at hand.  It was early in the morning, and the sun fell in long, level rays across his cot.  He turned his head and looked wistfully at the distance it would have to travel before it would be afternoon.

The nurse brought the screen and placed it about the bed—­the last service she could render.  For hours the end was expected, but moment by moment he held death at bay, refusing to accept the freedom that he so earnestly longed for.  At noon the sky became overcast and the slow falling of rain was heard on the low wooden roof.  But still his fervent eyes watched the sun-dial.