6

She told the other women of his remarks, and her own grief was beyond consoling. She found them engrossed in preparations for their departure, oblivious to the incongruity their twisted old figures emphasized; and her nun's robes seemed drabber for all the happy confusion.

“And there they are, so busy getting ready,

And wet are the sleeves of the solitary fishwife.”

Nakanokimi answered:

“Is it drier, my sleeve, than the brine-wet sleeve of the fishwife?

Sodden it is, from the waves upon which it floats.*

“I do not expect to take to this new life. I may well be back after I have given it a try, and so I do not really feel that I am going away. We will meet again. But I do not like the thought of leaving you here by yourself for even a little while. Nuns do not have to cut themselves off completely, you know. Do as all of them do—come and see me occasionally.”

Affection welled up as she spoke. She had arranged to leave behind such of her sister's combs and brushes as she thought a nun could use.

“You seem so much more deeply affected than the others,” she went on. “It makes me feel sure that there was a bond between us in another life. And you seem even nearer now.”

The old woman was weeping quite helplessly, like a child that has lost its mother.