come and take the last look of my dead friend's face. Behold,
Tusitala is dead. We were in prison and he cared for us. The day
was no longer than his kindness. Who is there so great as Tusitala?
Who is there more loving-compassionate? What is your love to his
love?"

So the chiefs took their friend to the top of a steep mountain
which he had loved, and there buried him. It was a mighty task.

The civilised world mourns the great author. The name of Robert
Louis Stevenson is lastingly inwrought into English literature. But
the Samoans mourn in his loss a brother, who outdid all others in
loving-kindness, and so long as the island in the Pacific exists,
Tusitala will be gratefully remembered, not because he was so
greatly gifted, but because he was a good man.

The phrase, "The Road of the Loving Heart," is a gospel in itself.
"The day is not longer than his kindness" is a new beatitude. Fame
dies, and honours perish, but "loving-kindness" is immortal.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Editorial in old copy of _Youth's Companion_.]

Joyce finished and looked up inquiringly. She still did not see what
connection the road could have with Betty's distress over the measles.

"Now, don't you see?" asked Betty, tremulously, "It is for godmother
that I wanted to build that road, for ever since I came she has been
like Tusitala to me. 'The day is no longer than her kindness.' Oh,
Joyce, nobody knows how good she has been to me!" Then between her sobs
she told Joyce again the story of the gold beads, and the many things
her godmother had done to make her visit a continual delight. Mrs.
Sherman, outside the door, felt her eyes grow dim and her cheeks wet, as
the child babbled on, reciting a long list of little kindnesses that she
had treasured in her memory, and that her godmother had either done
unconsciously, or had forgotten long ago.

It showed how hungry the poor little heart had been, that such trifles
could make it brim over with gratitude. She wiped her eyes more than
once as the voice went on.

"Of course I couldn't dig a road like those chiefs did, and she wouldn't
have wanted one, even if I could; but I thought maybe I could leave a
memory behind me when this beautiful visit is done, that would be like a
smooth, white road. You know remembering things is like looking back
over a road. At least it always seemed that way to me, and the
unple