30

In the evening a letter was delivered from Niou. It came at a difficult time, and should have been some slight comfort to them; but Nakanokimi was in no hurry to look at it.

“You must send off a kind answer, a friendly one,” said Oigimi. “It worries me a great deal to think that I may die and leave you behind, and some awful man may come along and make things even worse. As long as the prince has an occasional thought for you, the worst sort of man will stay away. It will not be easy, I know, but he _is_ a defense of sorts.”

“Do you really think of leaving me? You mustn't even whisper it.” Nakanokimi hid her face.

“We all have to die, and you know how much I hated the idea of living a moment longer than Father. But here I am, with my life still to live out. And who is it that makes me, after all, sorry to leave'a world where no one can be sure of the morrow'?” #

A lamp was brought and they read the letter. It was warm and de-tailed, as always, and it contained this poem:

“The sky I see is the usual nighttime sky.

Then why tonight do the showers increase my longing?”

It was so trite and perfunctory, just one more allusion to tear-soaked sleeves. “Well, that is that,” one could almost hear him saying as he dashed it off. Yet his manner and appearance were enough to make any girl fall in love with him, and he could be completely charming when he wanted to.

Nakanokimi's longing increased as time went by. And there had been those effusive promises, which it was hard to believe he meant to ignore completely. She felt her resentment subside.

The messenger said that he would like to go back that night. Everyone was pressing Nakanokimi for an answer, and finally she produced a poem:

“Here in our hail-flogged village, deep in the mountains,

The skies upon which we gaze are forever cloudy.”