"Poor child!" said he, "you fear; your soul misgives you.
Well, let me keep it.
I am old and can never more be happy in this world, and as for the next--"
"Give it me!" gasped Kokua.
"There is your money.
Do you think I am so base as that? give me the bottle."
"God bless you, child," said the old man.
Kokua concealed the bottle under her holoku, said farewell to the old man, and walked off along the avenue, she cared not whither.
For all roads were not the same to her, and led equally to hell.
Sometimes she walked, and sometimes ran; sometimes she screamed out loud in the night, and sometimes lay by the wayside in the dust and wept.
All that she had heard of hell came back to her; she saw the flames blaze, and she smelt the smoke, and her flesh withered on the coals.
Near the day she came to her mind again, and returned to the house.
It was even as the old man said-- Keawe slumbered like a child.
Kokua stood and gazed upon his face.
"Now, my husband," said she, "it is your turn to sleep.
When you wake it will be your turn to sing and laugh.
But for poor Kokua, alas! that meant no evil--for poor Kokua no more sleep, no more singing, no more delight, whether in earth or heaven."
With that she lay down int he bed by his side, and her misery was so extreme that she fell in a deep slumber instantly.
Late in the morning her husband woke her and gave her the good news.
It seemed he was silly with delight, for he paid no heed to her distress, ill though she dissembled it.
The words stuck in her mouth, it mattered not; Keawe did the speaking.
She ate not a bite, but who was to observe it? for Keawe cleared the dish.
Kokua saw and heard him, like some strange thing in a dream; there were times when she forgot or doubted, and put her hands to her brow; to know herself doomed and hear her husband babble, seemed so monstrous.
All the while Keawe was eating and talking, and planning the time of their return, and thanking her for saving him, and fondling her, and calling her the true help er after all.
He laughed at the old man that was fool enough to buy that bottle.
"A worthy old man he seemed," Keawe said.
"But no one can judge by appearances.
For why did the old reprobate require the bottle?"
"My husband," said Kokua, humbly, "his purpose may have been good."
Keawe laughed like an angry man.
"Fiddle-de-dee!" cried Keawe.
"An old rogue, I tell you; and an old ass to boot.
For the bottle was hard enough to sell at four centimes; and at three it will be quite impossible.
The margin is not broad enough, the thing begins to smell of scorching--brrr!" said he, and shuddered.
"It is true I bought it myself at a cent, when I knew not there were smaller coins.
I was a fool for my pains; there will never be found another: and whoever has that bottle now will carry it to the pit."
"O my husband!" said Kokua.
"It is not a terrible thing to save oneself by the eternal ruin of another?
It seems to me I could not laugh.
I would be humbled.
I would be filled with melancholy. I would pray for the poor holder."
Then Keawe, because he felt the truth of what she said, grew the more angry.
"Heighty-teighty!" cried he.
"You maybe filled with melancholy if you please.
It is not the mind of a good wife.
If you thought at all of me, you would sit shamed."
Thereupon he went out, and Kokua was alone.
What chance had she to sell that bottle at two centimes?
None, she perceived.
And if she had any, here was her husband hurrying her away to a country where there was nothing lower than a cent.