the least glimmer of news, had at last given up all hope. She would have been glad enough for her own sake to keep the child, to whom she had become fondly attached, as a remembrance of the mistress whom she must now regard as forever lost. But there were also the little girl’s own interests to consider. ‘We are humble people,’ thought the nurse, ‘and Tsukushi[1] is a long way off. Perhaps it is my duty to tell her father[2] of what has happened and give him the chance of making some more suitable provision for her future.’ But it was difficult for such people to communicate with a young gentleman of Tō no Chūjō’s quality. ‘If I mention the child to its father,’ she said to her husband one day, ‘he is certain to ask at once how I could have been so foolish as to let our poor young lady out of my sight. And indeed, I don’t know how I should answer him. Then again, it isn’t as if he had ever seen much of the little creature. It would be like handing her over to strangers, and I do not think that, when the time came, I should ever find it in my heart to let her go. He may of course refuse to do anything for her himself; but one thing is certain: if he hears we are going off to Tsukushi, he will never give me leave to take her with us!’ So the nurse declared to her husband and companions. Though Tamakatsura was not much over three years old when her mother disappeared, she had acquired all the airs and graces of a little lady; she was remarkably good-looking and it was apparent that she already had a strong will of her own. But now she was bundled on to a common trading-ship in which no provision whatever had been made for the comfort of the passengers; and as they rowed out into the bay, she began to look very disconsolate. She still thought
