A long time Keawe stood and looked in the doorway. At first he was struck stupid; and then fear fell upon him that the bargain had been made amiss, and the bottle had come back to him as it came at San Francisco; and at that his knees were loosened, and the fumes of the wine departed from his head like mists off a river in the morning. And then he had another thought; and it was a strange one, that made his cheeks to burn. “I must make sure of this,” thought he. So he closed the door, and went softly round the corner again, and then came noisily in, as though he were but now returned. And, lo! by the time he opened the front door no bottle was to be seen; and Kokua sat in a chair and started up like one awakened out of sleep. “I have been drinking all day and making merry,” said Keawe. “I have been with good companions, and now I only come back for money, and return to drink and carouse with them again.” Both his face and voice were as stern as judgment, but Kokua was too troubled to observe. “You do well to use your own, my husband,” said she, and her words trembled. “O, I do well in all things,” said Keawe, and he went straight to the chest and took out money. But he looked besides in the corner where they kept the bottle, and there was no bottle there. At that the chest heaved upon the floor like a sea-billow, and the house span about him like a wreath of smoke, for he saw he was lost now, and there was no escape. “It is what I feared,” he thought. “It is she who has bought it.” And then he came to himself a little and rose up; but the sweat streamed on his face as thick as the rain and as cold as the well-water. “Kokua,” said he, “I said to you to-day what ill became me. Now I return to carouse with my jolly companions,” and at that he laughed a little quietly. “I will take more pleasure in the cup if you forgive me.” She clasped his knees in a moment; she kissed his knees with flowing tears. “O,” she cried, “I asked but a kind word!” “Let us never one think hardly of the other,” said Keawe, and was gone out of the house. Now, the money that Keawe had taken was only some of that store of centime pieces they had laid in at their arrival. It was very sure he had no mind to be drinking. His wife had given her soul for him, now he must give his for hers; no other thought was in the world with him. At the corner, by the old calaboose, there was the boatswain waiting. “My wife has the bottle,” said Keawe, “and, unless you help me to recover it, there can be no more money and no more liquor to-night.” “You do not mean to say you are serious about that bottle?” cried the boatswain. “There is the lamp,” said Keawe. “Do I look as if I was jesting?” “That is so,” said the boatswain. “You look as serious as a ghost.”