Sestrina listened with bowed head, and blushed deeply. She well knew the sorrow of the man’s thoughts; and was not vanity a part of her birthright? Only that morning had she stared on her image in the lagoon and sighed as her wind-blown tresses rippled over the graceful beauty of her form and about her faultless face.
Seeing Sestrina’s downcast eyes the Hawaiian sighed and said: “Wahine, sister mine, feel not unkindly towards me; I am thy friend. Long ago I would have died, but for the thought of your loneliness should I, too, sleep on in the grave under the palms.”
Sestrina heard the deep note of sorrow in Hawahee’s voice, and wiped her eyes, for up to that day he had always spoken as a dear brother to her.
And a strange thing had happened the night before as she dreamed in her chamber and heard the starlit waves wailing on the beach below. For, had she not leapt from her couch in wonder when she saw Hawahee asleep and dreaming as he held her shadowy form in his arms—though he was in his own hut under the breadfruits by the slopes of the valley, two hundred yards away!
Hawahee was unaware that Sestrina also had suddenly become endowed with the magic-flash which enabled him to read the deep dreams of the solitary woman who stood before him.
Taking a crumpled flower from the folds of her hair, Sestrina placed it tenderly against her lips and then handed it to Hawahee.
“Aloah, beloved, Mikai!” had replied the Hawaiian castaway as he took the gift and sadly smiled. For he had spent many long twilight hours in the island’s solitude telling Sestrina the poetic customs of his people. And one custom was, that the Hawaiian maids gave crumpled flowers that had adorned their hair in sleep to the one whom their hearts secretly sorrowed over.
“’Tis sweet to feel the light and warmth of the living day, therefore I am thankful for the gifts of the gods of the heiaus (sacred temples).”
Then they sat down opposite each other and ate their breakfast in silence. The blue tropic day had risen in all the virgin splendour of its new birth, and was scattering golden sunlight through the sheltering palms as they sat there.
“Sestra! Sestra!” chuckled old Rohana. Then the aged, grey-striped, blue-winged cockatoo stared sideways from its perch at Hawahee, who was solemnly munching away, and croaked, “O Atua! O Pelé!”