coursed sadly upon the evil times that had
befallen his reign.

"Me very busy when prenty ship come," he mourned. "Me fix for wood;
get seven dollar load. Me fix for girl for captain and mate. Me stay
ship, eat hard-tackee, salt horsee, chew tobacco, drink rum. Good
time he all dead."

The repast ended, we set out to view the depleted village with its
few inhabitants, the remainder after Europe had subtracted native
habits and native health.

The gorge that parted the valley was wide and deep for the silver
stream that sang its way to the bay. When the rain fell in cascades
the channel hardly contained the mad torrent that raced from the
heights, a torrent that had destroyed the road built years before
when whaler's ships by the dozens came each year. Now the natives
made their way as of old, up and down rocky trails and over the
stepping-stones.

Near the beach we came upon a group of tumbledown shanties, remnants
of the seat of government. Only a thatched schoolhouse and a tiny
cabin for the teacher were habitable. Here the single artist of the
islands, Monsieur Charles Le Moine, had taught the three "R's" to
Vait-hua's adolescents for years. He was away now, Neo said, but we
found his cabin open and littered with canvases, sketches,
paint-tubes, and worn household articles.

"He got litt'ee broomee, an' sweep paint out litt'ee pipe on thing
make ship's sails," Neo explained. Surely a description of a broad
modern style.

On the wall or leaning against it on the floor were a dozen drawings
and oils of a young girl of startling beauty. Laughing, clear-eyed,
she seemed almost to speak from the canvas, filling the room with
charm. Here she leaned against a palm-trunk, her bare brown body
warm against its gray; there she stood on a white beach, a crimson
_pareu_ about her loins and hibiscus flowers in her hair.

"That Hinatini," said Seventh Man Who Wallows, speaking always in
what he supposed to be English. "She some pumkin, eh? Le Moine like
more better make _tiki_ like this than say book. She my niece."

The rich colors of the pictures sang like bugle-notes among the
shabby odds and ends of the studio. A cot, a broken chair or two, a
table smeared with paints, an old shoe, a pipe, and a sketch of the
Seine, gave me La Moine in his European birthright, but the absence
of any European comforts, the lack even of dishes and a lamp, told
me that Montmartre would not know him again. The eyes of the girl
who lived