larly adorable, I told him, in a burst of affection, that he could have anything in the world he wanted, only begging him to name it.

He smiled, looked thoughtful for an instant, and then answered, promptly, that of all things in the world he would like ear-rings, like those the sailors wear.

I bought him a pair the next time I went to town. Then, armed with a cork and a needleful of white silk, I called Pola, and asked if he wanted the ear-rings badly enough to endure the necessary operation.

He smiled and walked up to me. "Now, this is going to hurt, Pola," I said.

He stood perfectly straight when I pushed the needle through his ear and cut off the little piece of silk. I looked anxiously in his face as he turned his head for me to pierce the other one. I was so nervous that my hands trembled. "Are you sure it does not hurt, Pola, my pigeon?" I asked, and I have never forgotten his answer.

66

My father is a soldier," he said. Pola's dress was a simple garment, a square of white muslin hemmed by his adopted mother. Like all Samoans, he was naturally very clean, going with the rest of the "Vailima men to swim in the waterfall twice a day. He would wash his hair in the juice of wild oranges, clean his teeth with the inside husk of the cocoanut, and, putting on a fresh lava-lava, would wash out the discarded one in the river, laying it out in the sunshine to dry. He was always decorated with flowers in some way—a necklace of jessamine buds, pointed red peppers, or the scarlet fruit of the pandanas. Little white boys look naked without their clothes, but Pola in a strip of muslin, with his wreath of flowers, or sea-shells, some ferns twisted about one ankle, perhaps, or a boar's tusk fastened to his left arm with strands of horsehair, looked completely, even handsomely, dressed.

He was not too proud to lend a helping hand at any work going-setting the table, polishing the floor of the hall or the brass handles of the old cabinet, leading the horses to water carrying pails for the milkmen, helping the cook in the kitchen, the butler in the pantry, or the

cow-boy in the fields; holding skeins of wool for Mr. Stevenson's mother, or trotting beside the lady of the house, "Tamaitai," as they all called her, carrying seeds or plants for her garden. When my brother went out with a number of natives laden with surveying implements, Pola only stopped long enough to beg for a cane-knife before he was leading the party. If Mr. Stevenson called for his horse and started to town it was always Pola who flew to open the gate for him waving a “Talofa!” and good luck to the travelling!"

66

The Samoans are not reserved, like the Indians, or haughty, like the Arabs. They are a cheerful, lively people, who keenly enjoy a joke, laughing at the slightest provocation. Pola bubbled over with fun, and his voice could be heard chattering and singing gayly at any hour of the day. He made up little verses about me, which he sang to the graceful gestures of the Siva or native dance, showing unaffected delight when commended. He cried out with joy and admiration when he first heard a hand-organ, and was excitedly happy when allowed to turn the handle. I gave him a box of tin soldiers, which he played with for hours in my room. He would arrange them on the floor, talking earnestly to himself in Sa

moan.

"These are brave brown men," he would mutter. "They are fighting for Mata'afa. Boom boom! These are white men. They are fighting the Samoans. Pouf!" And with a wave of his arm he knocked down a whole battalion, with the scornful remark, "All white men are cowards.”

After Mr. Stevenson's death so many of his Samoan friends begged for his photograph that we sent to Sydney for a supply, which was soon exhausted. One afternoon Pola came in and remarked, in a very hurt and aggrieved manner, that he had been neglected in the way of photographs.

But your father, the Chief, has a large fine one."

True," said Pola. "But that is not mine. I have the box presented to me by your high-chief goodness. It has a little cover, and there I wish to put the sun-shadow of Tusitala, the beloved Chief

whom we all revere, but I more than the others because he was the head of my clan.'

"To be sure," I said, and looked about for a photograph. I found a picture cut from a weekly paper, one I remember that Mr. Stevenson himself had particularly disliked. He would have been pleased had he seen the scornful way Pola threw the picture on the floor.

"I will not have that!" he cried. "It is pig-faced. It is not the shadow of our Chief." He leaned against the door and wept.

He

He brightened up at once. "There is the one in the smoking-room," he said, "where he walks back and forth. That pleases me, for it looks like him." referred to an oil painting of Mr. Stevenson by Sargent. I explained that I could not give him that. "Then I will take the round one," he said, of tin." This last was the bronze bas-relief by St. Gaudens. I must have laughed involuntarily, for he went out deeply hurt. Hearing a strange noise in the hall an hour or so later, I opened the door, and discovered Pola lying on his face, weeping bitterly. "What are you crying about?" I asked. "The shadow, the shadow," he sobbed. "I want the sun-shadow of Tusitala."

I knocked at my mother's door across the hall, and at the sight of that tearstained face her heart melted, and he was given the last photograph we had, which he wrapped in a banana-leaf, tying it carefully with a ribbon of grass.

We left Samoa after Mr. Stevenson's death, staying away for more than a year. Pola wrote me letters by every mail in a large round hand, but they were too conventional to bear any impress of his mind.

He referred to our regretted separation, exhorting me to stand fast in the highchief will of the Lord, and, with his love to each member of the family, mentioned by name and title, he prayed that I might live long, sleep well, and not forget Pola, my unworthy servant.

When we returned to Samoa we were up at dawn, on shipboard, watching the horizon for the first faint cloud that floats above the island of Upulu. Already the familiar perfume came floating over the waters that sweet blending of many odors, of cocoanut oil and baking bread fruit, of jessamine and gardenia. It smelt of home to us, leaning over the rail and watching. First a cloud, then a shadow growing more and more distinct until we saw the outline of the island. Then, as we drew nearer, the deep purple of the distant hills, the green of the rich forests, and the silvery ribbons where the waterfalls reflect the sunshine.

Among the fleet of boats skimming out to meet us was one far ahead of the others, a lone canoe propelled by a woman, with a single figure standing in the prow. As the steamer drew near I made out the figure of Pola, dressed in wreaths and flowers in honor of my return. As the anchor went down in the bay of Apia and the custom-house officer started to board, I called out, begging him to let the child come on first. He drew aside. The canoe shot up to the gangway, and Pola, all in his finery of fresh flowers, ran up the gangway and stepped forth on the deck. The passengers drew back before the strange little figure, but he was too intent upon finding me to notice them.

"Teuila!" he cried, joyfully, with the tears rolling down his cheeks. I went forward to meet him, and, kneeling on the deck, caught him in my arms.

sea.

I-A RELIC FROM AFRICA

THE Maid of the North was ready for

Only the touch of the engineer was wanting to send her, once again, on a homeward voyage to the St. Lawrence. Meanwhile, in solemn undertones, she was breathing forth her superabundant steam. Behind the wharf lay the city of Boston. A score of passengers, together with friends who had come aboard to see them off, were scattered about the little steamer. Among them, on the after-deck, indifferent to the hot June sun, moved a gentle-man of aristocratic mien. His raiment was above reproach. He gave the impression of being a distinguished person. But this impression was delusive, as his distinction was merely social. He was too well provided for, too easily clever and in too many ways, to achieve renown in any field requiring serious labor.

He inhaled the salt air as it came in from the sea, took out his watch, scanned the wharf, picked a thread from his sleeve and twirled, somewhat carefully, the ends of a yellow mustache. His glance moved indifferently over various passengers and things about him until it rested on a man, not far away. The man was leaning against the railing of the deck watching the scene upon the wharf below. The extreme attenuation of this person had already rendered him an object of interest to several passengers. His clothing hung loosely from his shoulders. Both coat and vest were far too roomy for the body beneath, while the trousers bore no relation to his legs. But the emaciated face, deeply browned by exposure, told a story of hardship and star* Copyright, 1901, by J. A. Mitchell.

vation rather than of ordinary sickness. Two thin, dark hands, that rested on the ship's rail, seemed almost transparent.

The aristocratic gentleman regarded this person with increasing interest. He approached the railing himself and furtively studied the stranger's profile. Then, with an expression in his face less blasé than heretofore, he approached the man and stood behind him. Laying a hand on one of the shoulders to prevent his victim turning, he said:

"I beg your pardon, sir, but could you tell me the name of this town?"

There was a short silence. Then the stranger answered in a serious tone, and with no effort to see his questioner, "This is Boston, the city of respectability -and other delights."

66 Yes?"

"It is also the home of a man who doesn't seem to have matured with the passing years."

"Well, who is that man?"

"A fellow that might have been a famous tenor if he had owned a voice— and some idea of music."

The other man laughed, removed his hand, and his friend turned about. Then followed a greeting as between old intimates, long separated. And such was the mutual pleasure of the reunion that a neighboring spectator, many years embittered by dyspepsia, so far forgot himself as to allow a smile of sympathy to occupy his face.

The countenance of the attenuated person was unusual; not from any peculiarity of feature, but from its invincible cheerfulness. This cheerfulness was constitutional and contagious. His face seemed nearly ten years younger than it was; for the unquenchable good-humor,

"Thirty."

"Then it's a lie."

"It's the truth. Of course I nave known very fine girls who caused the usual thrills; whose conservatory kisses I should never undervalue. But when it comes to the fatuous delirium-the celestial idiocy that queers the brain and impairs the vision-why, I have been unlucky, that's all."

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'You are a liar, Pats. Just a liar." "Mumps have been mine, and measles; and I have fooled with grape-juice, but that other drunkenness has been denied me." His companion's grunt of incredulity was followed by the exclamation :

“There she comes !”

The two men below had halted, wheeled about, and were watching an arriving carriage. Down the wharf with this equipage came an atmosphere of solidity and opulence, of luxury and perfect taste. On the box, in quiet livery, sat a driver and a footman. The driver, from his bearing and appearance, could easily have passed for the president of a college. As the carriage halted before the gang-plank the gentleman with the nose stepped forward and opened the door, while he of the roses stood by with a radiant visage, his hat in one hand, his offering in the other.

First emerged an elderly gentleman -tall, slender, and acutely respectable. After him a girl descended, also tall and slender. She was followed by a maid, and a Catholic priest. As the young lady stood for a moment conversing with the two admirers, her glance, in running over the little steamer, encountered Mr. Townsend, and she nodded pleasantly.

"Lovely! Enchanting!" murmured

the man from Africa.

"Of course she is! Come down and I'll present you."

"But first, tell me something about her. What are the interesting facts?"

"Why-there's nothing to tell-that I can think of."

"Of course there is ! There must be ! Women like that don't bloom in every garden. What a patrician type! And all that black hair! She is unusual." "Well, she is unusual, Pats. She is a splendid girl; an orphan-and she is giving her fortune all away."

"The devil! And to whom?"

"To philanthropy; to societies for the advancement of woman; to hospitals and other bottomless pits. But above all to the Catholic.Church." "Too bad! She doesn't look unintelligent."

"No: and she is not. Her mother and sister, all that remained of her family, were both drowned in the same accident, and the shock upset her for a time."

"And it was then the Holy Roman Church got in its work. That explains the Holy Roman guardian who seems to be along."

"Yes. That's Father Burke. He is a part of the comedy."

Comedy ! It's a blood-curdling drama! Hasn't she a brother or some relative to reach out a hand and save her?"

'She doesn't care to be saved. She is one of those women with a conscience. A big one: the sort that becomes a disease unless taken in time."

"I know. She feels guilty when she's happy. But she doesn't look all that. She seems a trifle earnest, perhaps, but very human, and with real blood in her veins."

Mr. Townsend sighed-a long, deep sigh that seemed to come from below his waist. "Yes, she was mighty good company and rather jolly before they closed in on her." Is she really in their toils?

"You mean the Catholic prelates ?" "Of course."

"I am afraid so. She won't talk about it herself—at least, not with Protestants but some of her friends say she thinks of going into a convent."

"Well," said Patrick Boyd, with a sudden warmth, as they turned to go below, "all I can say is, that the institution, sacred or secular, that tries to lure such a girl into a convent ought to be fired into space." "Amen to that!"

II-FROTH OF THE SEA

An hour later, as the Maid of the North was steaming for the open sea, the man from Africa and his new acquaintances formed a group on the after-deck.

The day was a rare one, even for early