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216 garden of sweet flowers to follow our porters with the luggage.

Next morning we are to sail soon after sunrise, and we get up to see the last of Nagasaki and our home, now a mere matchbox-looking villa (when seen from the deck of our steamer down here in the harbour) perched high up on the hillside, in company with scores of other similar abodes.

As we drift out from our moorings in mid-harbour, we catch sight of it for the last time, and Mousmé through her tears kisses her fingers to it.

We wave our hands and handkerchiefs to those on shore, to Kotmasu, a tiny figure on the quay, and to the men who have congregated in their sampans, like a flock of water-fowl, to see the great jokisen off.

Then we pass through the narrow neck of the harbour, with the towering green slopes of the hills seeming almost about to