efficiency, and a scene of
neatness, airiness, and spirited and mirthful occupation that should
shame them into cheerier methods. The sisters themselves lament their
failure. They complain the annual holiday undoes the whole year's work;
they complain particularly of the heartless indifference of the girls.
Out of so many pretty and apparently affectionate pupils whom they have
taught and reared, only two have ever returned to pay a visit of
remembrance to their teachers. These, indeed, come regularly, but the
rest, so soon as their school-days are over, disappear into the woods
like captive insects. It is hard to imagine anything more discouraging;
and yet I do not believe these ladies need despair. For a certain
interval they keep the girls alive and innocently busy; and if it be at
all possible to save the race, this would be the means. No such praise
can be given to the boys' school at Hatiheu. The day is numbered already
for them all; alike for the teacher and the scholars death is girt; he
is afoot upon the march; and in the frequent interval they sit and yawn.
But in life there seems a thread of purpose through the least
significant; the drowsiest endeavour is not lost, and even the school at
Hatiheu may be more useful than it seems.

Hatiheu is a place of some pretensions. The end of the bay towards Anaho
may be called the civil compound, for it boasts the house of Kooamua,
and close on the beach, under a great tree, that of the gendarme, M.
Armand Aussel, with his garden, his pictures, his books, and his
excellent table, to which strangers are made welcome. No more singular
contrast is possible than between the gendarmerie and the priesthood,
who are besides in smouldering opposition and full of mutual complaints.
A priest's kitchen in the eastern islands is a depressing spot to see;
and many, or most of them, make no attempt to keep a garden, sparsely
subsisting on their rations. But you will never dine with a gendarme
without smacking your lips; and M. Aussel's home-made sausage and the
salad from his garden are unforgotten delicacies. Pierre Loti may like
to know that he is M. Aussel's favourite author, and that his books are
read in the fit scenery of Hatiheu Bay.

The other end is all religious. It is here that an overhanging and
tip-tilted horn, a good sea-mark for Hatiheu, bursts naked from the
verdure of the climbing forest, and breaks down shoreward in steep
taluses and cliffs. From the edge of one o