My husband was still intent on seeing Molokai. After the waste of much time and red tape, he finally received an official permission to visit the leper settlement. It did not occur to him it would be necessary to get a separate official permission to _leave_ Molokai; hence he was nearly left behind when the vessel sailed out. He only saved himself by a prodigious leap which landed him on board the boat, whence nothing but force could dislodge him. By the doctor’s orders he took gloves to wear as a precautionary measure against contagion, but they were never worn. At first he avoided shaking hands, but when he played croquet with the young leper girls he would not listen to the Mother Superior’s warning that he must wear gloves. He thought it might remind them of their condition. ‘What will you do if you find you have contracted leprosy?’ I asked. ‘Do?’ he replied; ‘why, you and I would spend the rest of our lives in Molokai and become humble followers of Father Damien.’ As Mr. Balfour says in the Life of Stevenson, he was as stern with his family as he was with himself, and as exacting. He talked very little to us of the tragedy of Molokai, though I could see it lay heavy on his spirits; but of the great work begun by Father Damien and carried on by his successors he spoke fully. He had followed the life of the priest like a detective until there seemed nothing more to learn. Mother Mary Ann, the Mother Superior, he could never mention without deep emotion. One of the first things he did on his return to Honolulu was to send her a grand piano for the use of her girls—the girls with whom he had played croquet. He also sent toys, sewing materials, small tools for the younger children, and other things that I have forgotten. After his death a letter was found among his papers, of which I have only the last few lines. ‘I cannot suppose you remember me, but I won’t forget you, nor God won’t forget you for your kindness to the blind white leper at Molokai.’ During my husband’s absence I had made every preparation for our voyage on the _Equator_, so but little time was lost before we found ourselves on board, our sails set for the south. The _Equator_, which had easily lived through the great Samoan hurricane, made no such phenomenal runs as the _Casco_, but we could trust her, and she had no ‘tricks and ways’ that we did not understand. We liked the sailors, we loved the ship and her captain, so it was with heart-felt regret we said farewell in the harbour of Apia after a long and perfect cruise.