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HE night before we sailed my Tokyo uncle called, bringing with him a package of “friendship ribbons” for the children—those frail, dainty, quivery strips that bind the hands of friends between deck and dock at the moment of starting—and parting.

“I’ll hold a pink one for Toshiko and a blue one for Kuni San,” cried Chiyo, as the bright-coloured rolls tumbled out of the package, “and a white one for my teacher and a purple one for—for you, Uncle Tosa! Two of the most beautiful for you, of any colour you choose!”

“I’ll hold a whole bunch of red and white ones for all Japan!” said Hanano. “Love, much love, and good-bye; for I’ll never come back. I love everybody here, but I’m going to stay for ever with Grandma in ‘Home, Sweet Home,’&thinsp;” and she softly hummed the tune as she slipped away, her face full of light. Ah, how little she dreamed that in years to come she would return—more than once—and always with a heart full of double loyalty: half for the land of her birth and half for the land of love, where were husband, children, and home.

Hanano and Chiyo had gone to bed, and I was attending to the last scattered duties of the packing when Sudzu lifted a folded shawl to lay on top of the tray before closing a trunk.