and heard the flames crackle, and saw the red fire burn in the
bottomless pit. The girl, indeed, had come to him wholly; her heart
leapt in her side at sight of him, her hand clung to his; and she was so
fashioned from the hair upon her head to the nails upon her toes that
none could see her without joy. She was pleasant in her nature. She had
the good word always. Full of song she was, and went to and fro in the
Bright House, the brightest thing in its three stories, carolling like
the birds. And Keawe beheld and heard her with delight, and then must
shrink upon one side, and weep and groan to think upon the price that he
had paid for her; and then he must dry his eyes, and wash his face, and
go and sit with her on the broad balconies, joining in her songs, and,
with a sick spirit, answering her smiles.

There came a day when her feet began to be heavy and her songs more
rare; and now it was not Keawe only that would weep apart, but each
would sunder from the other and sit in opposite balconies with the whole
width of the Bright House betwixt. Keawe was so sunk in his despair he
scarce observed the change, and was only glad he had more hours to sit
alone and brood upon his destiny, and was not so frequently condemned to
pull a smiling face on a sick heart. But one day, coming softly through
the house, he heard the sound of a child sobbing, and there was Kokua
rolling her face upon the balcony floor, and weeping like the lost.

"You do well to weep in this house, Kokua," he said. "And yet I would
give the head off my body that you (at least) might have been happy."

"Happy!" she cried. "Keawe, when you lived alone in your Bright House,
you were the word of the island for a happy man; laughter and song were
in your mouth, and your face was as bright as the sunrise. Then you
wedded poor Kokua; and the good God knows what is amiss in her--but from
that day you have not smiled. O!" she cried, "what ails me? I thought I
was pretty, and I knew I loved him. What ails me that I throw this cloud
upon my husband?"

"Poor Kokua," said Keawe. He sat down by her side, and sought to take
her hand; but that she plucked away. "Poor Kokua!" he said again. "My
poor child--my pretty. And I had thought all this while to spare you!
Well, you shall know all. Then, at least, you will pity poor Keawe; then
you will understand how much he loved you in the past--that he dared
hell for your possession--and how much he loves you still (the poor