Henceforth he came under the law of segregation, and journeys to the ether parts of the islands were forbidden. But he worked on with the same sturdy, cheerful fortitude, accepting the will of God with gladness, undaunted by the continual reminders of his coming fate, which met him in the poor creatures around him.
"I would not be cured," he said to me, "if the price of my cure was that I must leave the island and give up my work."
A lady wrote to him, "You have given up all earthly things to serve God here and to help others, and I believe you must have NOW joy that nothing can take from you and a great reward hereafter."
"Tell her," he said, with a quiet smile, "that it is true. I DO have that joy now."
He seldom talked of himself except in answer to questions, and he had always about him the simplicity of a great man—"clothed with humility."
My last letter from him is dated:
"KALAWAO, 28th February, 1889.
"My DEAR EDWARD CLIFFORD—Your sympathising letter of 24th gives me some relief in my rather distressed condition. I try my best to carry, without much complaining and in a practical way, for my poor soul's sanctification, the long-foreseen miseries of the disease, which, after all, is a providential agent to detach the heart from all earthly affection, and prompts much the desire of a Christian soul to be united—the sooner the better—with Him who is her only life.
"During your long travelling road homeward please do not forget the narrow road. We both have to walk carefully, so as to meet together at the home of our common and eternal Father. My kind regards and prayers and good wishes for all sympathising friends. Bon voyage, mon cher ami, et au revoir au ceil—Votus tuus,
"J. Damien."