Yes!  One remembered well enough old Nelson’s big, hospitable bungalow erected on a shelving point of land, his portly form, costumed generally in a white shirt and trousers (he had a confirmed habit of taking off his alpaca jacket on the slightest provocation), his round blue eyes, his straggly, sandy-white moustache sticking out all ways like the quills of the fretful porcupine, his propensity to sit down suddenly and fan himself with his hat.  But there’s no use concealing the fact that what one remembered really was his daughter, who at that time came out to live with him—­and be a sort of Lady of the Isles.

Freya Nelson (or Nielsen) was the kind of girl one remembers.  The oval of her face was perfect; and within that fascinating frame the most happy disposition of line and feature, with an admirable complexion, gave an impression of health, strength, and what I might call unconscious self-confidence—­a most pleasant and, as it were, whimsical determination.  I will not compare her eyes to violets, because the real shade of their colour was peculiar, not so dark and more lustrous.  They were of the wide-open kind, and looked at one frankly in every mood.  I never did see the long, dark eyelashes lowered—­I dare say Jasper Allen did, being a privileged person—­but I have no doubt that the expression must have been charming in a complex way.  She could—­Jasper told me once with a touchingly imbecile exultation—­sit on her hair.  I dare say, I dare say.  It was not for me to behold these wonders; I was content to admire the neat and becoming way she used to do it up so as not to conceal the good shape of her head.  And this wealth of hair was so glossy that when the screens of the west verandah were down, making a pleasant twilight there, or in the shade of the grove of fruit-trees near the house, it seemed to give out a golden light of its own.

She dressed generally in a white frock, with a skirt of walking length, showing her neat, laced, brown boots.  If there was any colour about her costume it was just a bit of blue perhaps.  No exertion seemed to distress her.  I have seen her land from the dinghy after a long pull in the sun (she rowed herself about a good deal) with no quickened breath and not a single hair out of its place.  In the morning when she came out on the verandah for the first look westward, Sumatra way, over the sea, she seemed as fresh and sparkling as a dewdrop.  But a dewdrop is evanescent, and there was nothing evanescent about Freya.  I remember her round, solid arms with the fine wrists, and her broad, capable hands with tapering fingers.

I don’t know whether she was actually born at sea, but I do know that up to twelve years of age she sailed about with her parents in various ships.  After old Nelson lost his wife it became a matter of serious concern for him what to do with the girl.  A kind lady in Singapore, touched by his dumb grief and deplorable perplexity, offered to take charge of Freya.  This arrangement lasted some six years, during which old Nelson (or Nielsen) “retired” and established, himself on his island, and then it was settled (the kind lady going away to Europe) that his daughter should join him.