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 helper 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.  “Is it 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 may be 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.  And here — on the morrow of her sacrifice — was her husband leaving her and blaming her.

She would not even try to profit by what time she had, but sat in the house, and now had the bottle out and viewed it with unutterable fear, and now, with loathing, hid it out of sight.

By-and-by, Keawe came back, and would have her take a drive.

“My husband, I am ill,” she said.  “I am out of heart.  Excuse me, I can take no pleasure.”

Then was Keawe more wroth than ever.  With her, because he thought she was brooding over the case of the old man; and with himself, because he thought she was right, and was ashamed to be so happy.