nternal arrangements of the _Monowai_, he sat
down with us as a free warrior. He was more a friend than a servant;
Stevenson treated him as the head of a clan in his old home might treat
a worthy follower. As there was yet an hour before the vessel sailed I
went on shore with him again. We were rowed there by a Samoan in a
waistcloth. His head was whitened by the lime which many of the natives
use to bleach their dark locks to a fashionable red.

The air was hot and the sea glittered under an intense sun. The rollers
from the roadstead broke upon the reef. The outer ocean was a very
wonderful tropic blue; inside the reefs the water was calmer, greener,
more unlike anything that can be seen in northern latitudes. A little
island inside the lagoon glared with red rock in the sunlight; cocoanut
palms adorned it gracefully; beyond again was the deeper blue of ocean;
the island itself, a mass of foliage, melted beautifully into the lucid
atmosphere. Yonder, said Stevenson, lay Vailima that I was not to see.
But I had seen the island and the man, and the natural colour and glory
of both.

As we went ashore he handed the book which I had given him to his
follower. He thought it necessary to explain to me that etiquette
demanded that no chief should carry anything. And etiquette was rigid
there.

"Mrs Grundy," he remarked, "is essentially a savage institution."

We went together to the post-office. And in the street outside, while
many passed and greeted "Tusitala" in the soft, native speech, we
parted. I saw him ride away, and saw him wave his hand to me as he
turned once more into the dark grove wherein I had met him in the year
of his death.

A DAY IN CAPETOWN

I went across the Parade, which every morning is full of cheap-jack
auctioneers selling all things under the sun to Kaffirs, Malays,
coolies, towards Rondebosch and Wynberg. At the Castle the electric tram
passed me, and I jumped on board and went, at the least, as fast as an
English slow train. The wind was blowing and the dust flew, but ahead of
us ran a huge electricity-driven water-cart, a very water tram, which
laid the red clouds for us. Yet in London we travel painfully in
omnibuses and horse-trams, and the rare water-cart is still drawn by
horses.

The road towards Rondebosch, where Mr Rhodes lived, is full of interest.
It reminded me dimly of a road in Ceylon: the colour of it was so red,
and the reddish tree trunks and heavy foliage were alm