For three months the girl remained on board, grave, dignified, and always self-possessed. Chaplin treated her kindly, and it was evident to all on board that the girl had given him such affection as she was capable of, and little knew his intentions regarding her future. With both Chaplin and Denison she would now converse freely in the Pelew Island dialect. And often pointing to the sinking sun she would sigh—“There is my land over there behind the sun. When will we get there?” Laying her hand on Chaplin's she would seek for an answer. And he would answer—nothing.
After the Indiana had cruised through the Line Islands she headed back for Rotumah and Fiji. The girl came up on deck after supper. It was blowing freshly and the barque was slipping through the water fast. Lunumala walked to the binnacle and looked at the compass, pointing to S.S.W. She gazed steadily at it awhile and then said to the Rotumah boy in his own tongue—“Why is the ship going to the South?”
Tom, the Rotuman, grinned—“To Fiji, my white tropic bird.”
Just then Chaplin came on deck, cigar in mouth. The girl and he looked at each other. He knew by her white, set face that mischief was brewing.
Pointing, with her left hand, to the compass, she said, in a low voice—
“To Fiji?”
“Yes,” said Chaplin, coolly, “to Fiji, where you must remain awhile, Lunumala.”
“And you?”
“That is my business. Question me no more now. Go below and turn in.”