ashore and landed on the beach in front of the trader's house.

"Well, Taplin, here's your schooner at last," said old Tom, as we shook
hands and seated ourselves in the comfortable, pleasant-looking room.
"I see you're getting ready to go."

Taplin was a man of about thirty or so, with a quiet, impassive face,
and dark, deep-set eyes that gave to his features a somewhat gloomy
look, except when he smiled, which was not often. Men with that
curious, far-off look in their eyes are not uncommon among the lonely
islands of the wide Pacific. Sometimes it comes to a man with long,
long years of wandering to and fro; and you will see it deepen when, by
some idle, chance word, you move the memories of a forgotten past--ere
he had even dreamed of the existence of the South Sea Islands and for
ever dissevered himself from all links and associations of the outside
world.


* * * * *


"Yes," he answered, "I am nearly ready. I saw the schooner at daylight,
and knew it was the ALIDA."

"Where do you think of going to, Taplin?" I asked.

"Back to the Carolines. Nerida belongs down that way, you know; and she
is fretting to get back again--otherwise I wouldn't leave this island.
I've done pretty well here, although the people I trade for are--well,
you know what they are."