division among the many chiefs, and prolonged warfare.  Very soon the chiefs found that this alien from a strange land was their best friend.  They began coming to him for counsel, and invited him to their most important conferences.

Though he did not bear that name, he became a missionary to them.  He was their hero, and they loved and trusted him because he tried to lead them aright.  They had never had such a friend.  And so it came about that when the wars ceased, the chiefs of both sides called him by a name of their own, and made him one of their own number, thus conferring upon him the highest honour within their power.

But many of the chiefs were still in prison, because of their political views or deeds, and in constant danger of being put to death.  Their sole friend was the Scotchman, whom they called Tusitala.  He visited them, comforted them, repeated passages from the history of Christ to them, and busied himself incessantly to effect their release.

At length he obtained their freedom, and then, glowing with gratitude, in despite of age, decrepitude, and loss of strength, they started directly for the estate of their benefactor, and there, in the terrible heat, they laboured for weeks in building him a road which they knew he had long desired.  Love conquered weakness, and they did not cease their toil until their handiwork, which they called “The Road of the Loving Heart,” was finished.

Not long after this the white chief suddenly died.  At the news the native chiefs flocked from all parts of the island to the house, and took charge of the body.  They kissed his hand as they came in, and all night sat in silence about him.  One of them, a feeble old man, threw himself on his knees beside the body of his benefactor, and cried out between his sobs: 

“I am only a poor black man, and ignorant.  Yet I am not afraid to come and take the last look of my dead friend’s face.  Behold, Tusitala is dead.  We were in prison and he cared for us.  The day was no longer than his kindness.  Who is there so great as Tusitala?  Who is there more loving-compassionate?  What is your love to his love?”

     So the chiefs took their friend to the top of a steep mountain
     which he had loved, and there buried him.  It was a mighty task.

The civilised world mourns the great author.  The name of Robert Louis Stevenson is lastingly inwrought into English literature.  But the Samoans mourn in his loss a brother, who outdid all others in loving-kindness, and so long as the island in the Pacific exists, Tusitala will be gratefully remembered, not because he was so greatly gifted, but because he was a good man.

     The phrase, “The Road of the Loving Heart,” is a gospel in itself. 
     “The day is not longer than his kindness” is a new beatitude.  Fame
     dies, and honours perish, but “loving-kindness” is immortal.