government clerks and to the world in general she was a grand-daughter of Shōni’s whose parents were in trouble of some kind and had left her in his charge. But in the family she continued to be treated as ‘the young lady’, and every sacrifice was made that she might have, so far as possible, the upbringing to which her birth entitled her. Shōni’s sudden illness and death naturally threw his wife into a piteous state of distraction; but in the midst of her grief, one thought obsessed her; would they ever be able to secure a passage back to the City and restore the little girl to her relations? Unfortunately Shōni had been unpopular with the local people and none of them would give any assistance. Thus the time dragged on, wretched years full of anxiety and discouragement; and still there seemed no prospect of return.
Meanwhile Tamakatsura grew to womanhood. She had all her mother’s beauty, and something more besides; for she seemed to have inherited from her father’s side a singular air of high breeding, an aristocratic fineness of limb and gesture, that in Yūgao, whose beauty was that of the by-street rather than of the palace, had been entirely lacking. She was of a very generous disposition, and in every way a most delightful companion. Her fame soon spread through the island, and hardly a day passed but some local squire or farmer attempted to get into correspondence with her. These letters, written for the most part in a rustic sprawling hand and very crudely expressed, were thrust upon every member of the household in turn in the hope that he or she would consent to act as a go-between. Clumsy documents of this kind were calculated to arouse nothing but disgust in the breast of any one save an islander, and no attention whatever was paid to them. At last the persistence of her suitors became a nuisance, and the nurse put it about that though the girl looked just like other people, she suffered
