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
tear-stained 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
high-chief 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 breadfruit, 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 st