Everywhere I looked I seemed to see this question written:  Was Page Hanaford’s absence at the time of the detectives’ visit accidental or planned?  Try as I would to put the hateful thought away from me, it came back again and again.

The boy’s slow return to health had troubled me more than I could well say.  It was so unnatural.  Jane and I did everything that sincere affection could suggest to ward off the hours of strange dejection, and he never failed in appreciation; yet we made no headway to a permanent sunny spot in his life, where he could be always happy and healthy, as was the right of youth.  I gave him every opportunity to tell me what caused his moods.  I showed him by my interest and sympathy that I wanted to believe in him and would stand by him at any cost.  There were times when he seemed on the verge of making a confidant of me, but his lips refused to utter the words.

Usually he responded eagerly to Zura’s gay coaxings to friendship and gladly shared her blithesome fun; but sometimes there was a look in his eyes such as a youthful prisoner might have when he knew that for life he is barred from blue skies.  As time went on less often appeared the playful curve of his lips, the crinkly smile in the corners of his eyes.

Once in the moonlight I saw him stretch out his hand as if to touch Zura’s glistening hair.  Some memory smote him.  He drew back sharply.

At times I was sure that he was purposely avoiding her.  Yet the thought seemed foolish.  If ever there was a goodly sight for eyes glad or sad it was the incarnation of joyous girlhood whose name was Zura Wingate.

Unable to solve the puzzle, I could only give my unstinted attention to the boy and girl.  If only our armor of love could shield the beloved!

I sent the invitation for the Thanksgiving celebration, and was much relieved by the answer that Mr. Hanaford would join us that evening.

The dinner was a great success.  For all of us it was full of good cheer.  Jane in her happiness looked years younger.  She was in high glee.

“Do you know, my friends in the Quarters are so happy over the hospital,” she exclaimed.  “I was obliged to ask the Sake Ya to sell only one little bottle of wine to each man.  He promised and said he would dilute it at that.  Wasn’t it good of him to do it?  Oh! it’s beautiful how big difficulties are melting away—­just like fax in the wire!” She joined in the laugh at her expense.

Zura urged, “Lady Jinny, please get you a pair of crutches for that limp in your tongue.”

“Better than that, child.  First operation in the hospital will be to take the kinks out of my foolish, twisted words.”

Afterwards in the sitting-room Zura went through her pretty little ceremony of making after-dinner coffee and serving it in some rare old Kutani cups.  The wonderful decoration of the frail china led her to talk of the many phases of Japan and its life that appealed to the artist.  Of the lights and shadows on land and sea the effects of the mists and the combination of color that defied mere paint.