A native girl, about thirteen years of age, was standing in the trader's doorway, clad only in a girdle of many-hued dracaena leaves. Her long, glossy black hair fell about her smooth red-brown shoulders like a mantle, and her big, deer-like eyes were filled with an eager expectancy.
“Come hither, Pautôe,” said the missionary, speaking to the girl in the bastard Samoan dialect of the island. “And so thou dost want to become servant to Marsi?”
Pautôe's eyes sparkled.
“Aye,” she replied, “I would be second tavini to him. No wages do I want, only let him give me my food, and a mat upon which to sleep, and I shall do much work for him—truly, much work.”
The missionary drew her to him and patted her shoulder.
“Dost like sardines, Pautôe?”
She clasped her hands over her bosom, and looked at him demurely from underneath her beautiful long-lashed eyes, and then her red lips parted and she showed her even, pearly teeth as she smiled.
“Give her a tin of sardines, and a biscuit or two, Marsh,” said the parson, “she's one of my pupils at the Mission House. You remember Bret Harte's story, The Right Eye of the Spanish Commander, and the little Indian maid Paquita? Well, this youngster is my Paquita. She's a most intelligent girl.” He paused a moment and then added regretfully: “Unfortunately my wife dislikes her intensely—thinks she's too forward. As a matter of fact a more lovable child never breathed.”
Marsh nodded. He was not surprised at Mrs. Copley disliking the child, for she—a thin, sharp-vis-aged and austere lady of forty years of age—was childless, and older than her cheerful, kind-hearted husband by twelve years. The natives bore her no love, and had given her the contemptuous nickname of Le Matua moa e le fua—“the eggless old hen”.
Marsh himself told me this story. He and I had been shipmates together in many cruises until he tired of the sea, and, having saved a little money, started business as a trader among the Equatorial Islands—and I lost a good comrade and friend.