by speechmaking, nor had he shone decoratively at receptions. It
was in the breakers at Waikiki, in the wild cattle drive on Manna
Kea, and in the breaking yard of the Haleakala Ranch that he had
performed his share of the entertaining.

She had not cared for the interminable statistics and eternal
speechmaking of the other members of the committee. Neither had
Steve. And it was with Steve that she had stolen away from the
open-air feast at Hamakua, and from Abe Louisson, the coffee
planter, who had talked coffee, coffee, nothing but coffee, for two
mortal hours. It was then, as they rode among the tree ferns, that
Steve had taught her the words of "Aloha Oe," the song that had been
sung to the visiting Senators at every village, ranch, and
plantation departure.

Steve and she had been much together from the first. He had been
her playfellow. She had taken possession of him while her father
had been occupied in taking possession of the statistics of the
island territory. She was too gentle to tyrannize over her
playfellow, yet she had ruled him abjectly, except when in canoe, or
on horse or surf-board, at which times he had taken charge and she
had rendered obedience. And now, with this last singing of the
song, as the lines were cast off and the big transport began backing
slowly out from the dock, she knew that Steve was something more to
her than playfellow.

Five thousand voices were singing "Aloha Oe,"--"MY LOVE BE WITH YOU
TILL WE MEET AGAIN,"--and in that first moment of known love she
realized that she and Steve were being torn apart. When would they
ever meet again? He had taught her those words himself. She