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restlessly pursing and unpursing, the eyes closed, receding into dark sockets. Of the rest of her, only the hands could be seen, lying on top of the cover, gnarled, spotted, and feebly plucking at the fabric.
     
    “Mother?” said Akitada softly, frightened by her appearance.
     
    She opened her eyes. They were still black and as sharp as ever. “You took your time!” she said. Her voice was strong, and its tone the familiar reprimand. It was almost reassuring. Akitada knelt down next to her.
     
    “I came as soon as I heard. Yesterday’s rain slowed me down. I had to spend the night in the mountains,”
     
    “Where is my grandson?”
     
    “He follows with Tamako and the servants. They will be here soon.”
     
    The eyes closed. “Not soon enough,” she murmured.
     
    “Only a week or so. You must get better quickly now so that you can hold your grandson and play with him. He is nearly three years old, active and big for his age.”
     
    “He is like his father, then,” she sighed.
     
    Akitada was deeply moved. He did not know what to say. Sudden tears rose to his eyes and he swallowed hard. “Oh, Mother!” he whispered, taking her hands in his.
     
    His mother opened her eyes to glare at him and pulled her hands from his pettishly. “Well, what are you waiting for? I expected you to bring me my grandson. Go away now. I am tired.”
     
    Akitada left the room, followed out by Yoshiko, who closed the door and murmured, “You must not mind her. She is in pain all the time.”
     
    He leaned against the wall and sighed. “No. She was always the same. I should not have expected any softening. It grieves me that you have had to be at the mercy of her moods all these years.”
     
    Yoshiko hung her head. “She cannot help it. It is her nature. Besides, there is no one else.”
     
    “Akiko?”
     
    “She has her own home and cannot come often. Never mind. It will be better now that you are here. But come, let’s have some tea or wine!”
     
    Akitada thought of the sickroom and shuddered. “Wine, I think. And something to eat. I left the monastery before the morning rice and have had nothing since last night.”
     
    Yoshiko cried out at that and made a fuss over him. She got him settled in his own room, which was spotlessly clean and adorned with a pot of fresh chrysanthemums. A maid brought warm wine and a plate of pickles. Soon after, bowls of rice, vegetables, and an excellent fish stew followed.
     
    Akitada ate, while Yoshiko filled him in on recent events in the household.
     
    “We have new servants,” she said. “Saburo, of course, you remember. He has been most kind and helpful, but the work is getting too much for him, so I employed a boy to help him with the outside chores. Mother’s old nurse died, as we wrote you, and her new maid has had to take much abuse. But she is a simple country girl, very strong and forgiving of Mother’s ill temper. I apologized to her one day, when Mother called her an idiot fit only to clean out stables, and she said, ‘Never mind, miss, she’s hurting and it takes away a bit of the pain.’ The cook is her cousin. I am afraid she knows nothing of elegant dishes, but we have had no occasion to entertain since you left. Is the food to your taste?”
     
    “Delicious,” Akitada said, and meant it. “If this is peasant fare, we must give it a fancy name and serve it to company.” He lifted his bowl of fish stew and bamboo sprouts. “How does ‘silver carp playing among the reeds and grasses’ strike you?”
     
    Yoshiko giggled. There was a little more color in her pale face now. Akitada put down the bowl and looked at her. Gone were the childlike innocence and gaiety, the soft prettiness of her face and body. She was paler, thinner, older, and much more fragile, but had gained an elegance which was quite attractive. In brighter clothes and with her hair loose she would be a different woman. Seeing her like this, in her dull cotton gown and with her hair