on Bickley, who had turned the page, "she" (he referred
to the late Mrs. Bastin) "would have preferred her thus," and he held up
another illustration of the same woman.

In this the native belle appeared after conversion, clad in broken-down
stays--I suppose they were stays--out of which she seemed to bulge and
flow in every direction, a dirty white dress several sizes too small,
a kind of Salvation Army bonnet without a crown and a prayer-book which
she held pressed to her middle; the general effect being hideous, and in
some curious way, improper.

"Certainly," said Bastin, "though I admit her clothes do not seem to
fit and she has not buttoned them up as she ought. But it is not of the
pictures so much as of the letterpress with its false and scandalous
accusations, that I complain."

"Why do you complain?" asked Bickley. "Probably it is quite true, though
that we could never ascertain without visiting the lady's home."

"If I could afford it," exclaimed Bastin with rising anger, "I should
like to go there and expose this vile traducer of my cloth."

"So should I," answered Bickley, "and expose these introducers of
consumption, measles and other European diseases, to say nothing of gin,
among an innocent and Arcadian people."

"How can you call them innocent, Bickley, when they murder and eat
missionaries?"

"I dare say we should all eat a missionary, Bastin, if we were hungry
enough," was the answer, after which something occurred to change the
conversation.

But I kept the book and read it as a neutral observer, and came to the
conclusion that these South Sea Islands, a land where it was always
afternoon, must be a charming place, in which perhaps the stars of
the Tropics and the scent of the flowers might enable one to forget a
little, or at least take the edge off memory. Why should I not visit
them and escape another long and dreary English winter? No, I could not
do so alone. If Bastin and Bickley were there, their eternal arguments
might amuse me. Well, why should they not come also? When one has money
things can always be arranged.

The idea, which had its root in this absurd conversation, took a curious
hold on me. I thought of it all the evening, being alone, and that night
it re-arose in my dreams. I dreamed that my lost Natalie appeared to me
and showed me a picture. It was of a long, low land, a curving shore
of which the ends were out of the picture, whereon grew tall palms, and
where great