“The parents did not come to them.  The minutes passed slowly in the silence, counted by beats of their hearts.  Yet their mother was not far away.  They heard the noise of the dried purau-leaves as they were placed on the grass.  They distinguished the sound of the breadfruit as they rolled dully upon the large leaves, and then the silvery sound of cups filled with pape miti and the miti noanoa from which a pleasant aroma arose.  They heard also the freeing of the cocoanuts from their hairy covering to release their limpid nectar.  On their mats the children became restless and began to cry.  Their eyes filled with bitter tears, and their throats choked with painful sobs.

“‘All is ready,’ said Rehua, gladly, to her husband, ’but before we eat, go and wake our little ones so dear to us.’

“Taua was afraid to break the sweet sleep of the babies.  He hesitated and said: 

“‘No, do not let us wake them.  They sleep so soundly now.’

“Pipiri Ma heard these touching words of their father.  Why was he afraid to wake them to-night when always they ate the fish with their parents—­the fish just from the sea and golden from the umu?  Had the love of their father been so soon lost to them, as under the foul breath of a demon that may have wandered about their home?

“Taua eats and enjoys his meal, but Rehua is distracted.  A cloud gathers on her brow, and her eyes, full of sadness, are always toward the house where the children are sleeping.  The meal finished, she, with her husband, hurry to the mats on which the children slept, but the little ones had heard the noise of their feet upon the dewy leaves.

“‘Haere atu!  Let us go!’ said the brother to the sister.  The door is closed, and with his slender arms he parts the light bamboo palings which surround the house, and both flee through the opening.

“A long time they wandered.  They followed the reaches of the valley.  They dipped their bruised feet in the amorous river that sang as it crept toward the ocean.  They broke through the twisted brush which was shadowed by the giant leaves, and while they so hurried they heard often the words of their parents, which the echoes of the valley brought to their ears: 

“’Come back!  Come back to us, Pipiri Ma!  Ma!  Haere mai, haere mai, Pipiri Ma!’

“And they called back from the depths of their bosoms, ’No, no; we will never come back.  The torchlight fishing will again yield the children nothing.’

“They hid themselves on the highest mountains which caress the sky with their misty locks.  They climbed with great difficulty the lower hills from which they looked down on the houses as small as a sailing canoe on the horizon.  They came upon a dark cave where the tupapaus made their terrible noises, and in this cavern dwelt a tahu, a sorcerer.  They were afraid, but the sorcerer was kind, and when he awoke, spoke so softly to them they thought they heard the sough of the hupe, the wind of the night, out of the valley below them.