Doctor Georges gave the command, and the unhappy wretches dragged
themselves to their feet and under their burdens of luggage began to
stagger across the lighter and aboard the steamer. It was the
funeral procession. At once the wailing started from those behind
the rope. It was blood-curdling; it was heart-rending. I never
heard such woe, and I hope never to again. Kersdale and McVeigh
were still at the other end of the wharf, talking earnestly--
politics, of course, for both were head-over-heels in that
particular game. When Lucy Mokunui passed me, I stole a look at
her. She WAS beautiful. She was beautiful by our standards, as
well--one of those rare blossoms that occur but once in generations.
And she, of all women, was doomed to Molokai. She straight on
board, and aft on the open deck where the lepers huddled by the
rail, wailing now, to their dear ones on shore.

The lines were cast off, and the Noeau began to move away from the
wharf. The wailing increased. Such grief and despair! I was just
resolving that never again would I be a witness to the sailing of
the Noeau, when McVeigh and Kersdale returned. The latter's eyes
were sparkling, and his lips could not quite hide the smile of
delight that was his. Evidently the politics they had talked had
been satisfactory. The rope had been flung aside, and the lamenting
relatives now crowded the stringer piece on either side of us.

"That's her mother," Doctor Georges whispered, indicating an old
woman next to me, who was rocking back and forth and gazing at the
steamer rail out of tear-blinded eyes. I noticed that Lucy Mokunui
was also wailing. She stopped abruptly and gazed at Kersdale. Then
she stretched forth her arms in that adorable, sensuous way that
Olga Nethersole has of embracing an audience. And with arms