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Raitua was a native of the old school, proud of the Polynesian learning with which his mind was stored, and secretly contemptuous of nearly all that the white man had to offer. Something childlike in the old man's nature appealed to a side in his granddaughter's nature to which Mauri had never gained access, and the girl had listened all through her childhood, with believing wonder, to Raitua's tales of old gods and heroes, of ancient voyages across thousands of leagues of sea, of the drawing up of new lands from the deep, and of the creation of those children of the gods who first peopled them.

Coming through the hallway from the rear of the house, Raitua stood listening while Naia completed her account of happenings in the distant settlement.

"I have filled the lamps," he said. "We could bring only one tin of kerosene in the small canoe. Terii will fetch the other. He will pass this way next week."

"There were no letters, I suppose?" Mauri asked.

"Aué! To be sure there was--one," Naia replied. "Where is it, Papa Ruau?"