gaudily dressed, were the only companions of her own age. Flower, of
the red-gold hair, was striking in a scarlet gown of sateen, a
wreath of pink peppers, and a necklace of brass. She had been
ornamented by the oarsmen of the _Jeanne d'Arc_, fortunately without
Père Victorien's knowledge. Teata, in her tight gown with its
insertions of fishnet revealing her smooth, tawny skin, a red scarf
about her waist, straw hat trimmed with a bright blue Chinese shawl
perched on her high-piled hair, was still a picture of primitive and
savage grace. They were handsome, these girls, but they were wild
flowers. Mlle. N---- had the poise and delicacy of the hothouse
blossom.

Her father had spent thirty years on Hiva-oa, laboring to wring a
fortune from the toil of the natives, and dying, he had left it all
to this daughter, who, with her laces and jewels, her elegant, slim
form and haughty manner, was in this wild abode of barefooted,
half-naked people like a pearl in a gutter. She was free now to do
what she liked with herself and her fortune. What would she do?

It was the question on every tongue and in every eye when, after mass,
she passed down the lane respectfully widened for her in the throng
on the steps and with a black-garbed sister at her side, walked to
the nuns' house.

"If only she had a religious vocation," sighed Sister Serapoline.
"That would solve all difficulties, and save her soul and happiness."

Vainly the nuns and priests had tried during the dozen years of her
tutelage in their hands to direct her aspirations toward this goal,
but one had only to look into her burning eyes or see the supple