face of the young friar; we knew the hand--it was
unmistakable; we have all agreed upon it and are ready to swear to it on
our oaths! That novice was none other than Paul Clitheroe!"

A LITTLE SAVAGE GENTLEMAN

BY

ISOBEL STRONG

Reprinted from _Scribner's Magazine_ by permission

"IF YOU want a child as badly as all that," my brother said, "why not
adopt a chief's son, some one who is handsome and well-born, and will be
a credit to you, instead of crying your eyes out over a little common
brat who is an ungrateful cub, and ugly into the bargain?"

I wasn't particularly fond of the "common brat," but I had grown used to
tending him, bandaging his miserable little foot and trying to make his
lot easier to bear; and he had been spirited away. One may live long in
Samoa without understanding the whys and wherefores. His mother may have
been jealous of my care of the child and carried him away in the night;
or the clan to which he belonged may have sent for him, though his
reputed father was our assistant cook. At any rate, he had
gone--departed as completely and entirely as though he had vanished into
thin air, and I, sitting on the steps of the veranda, gave way to tears.

Two days later, as I hastened across the courtyard, I turned the corner
suddenly, nearly falling over a small Samoan boy, who stood erect in a
gallant pose before the house, leaning upon a long stick of sugar-cane,
as though it were a spear.

"Who are you?" I asked, in the native language.

"I am your son," was the surprising reply.

"And what is your name?"

"Pola," he said. "Pola, of Tanugamanono, and my mother is the white
chief lady, Teuila of Vailima."

He was a beautiful creature, of an even tint of light bronze-brown; his
slender body reflected the polish of scented cocoanut oil, the tiny
garment he called his _lava-lava_ fastened at the waist was coquettishly
kilted above one knee. He wore a necklace of scarlet berries across his
shoulders, and a bright red hibiscus flower stuck behind his ear. On his
round, smooth cheek a single rose-leaf hid the dimple. His large black
eyes looked up at me with an expression of terror, overcome by pure
physical courage. From the top of his curly head to the soles of his
high-arched slender foot he looked _tama'alii_--high-bred. To all my
inquiries he answered in purest high-chief Samoan that he was my son.

My brother came to the rescue with explanations. Taking pity on me, he
had gone