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Things went on as usual for a long time–business middling, Doc rounding up the bars, Rosie raising Cain occasionally, or snarling and muttering in the hammock just as the humor took her. It was the damnedest life for a man to lead, just pigging it and worse every day, with no order and anything–a can of meat for lunch, a can of meat for dinner, and the table left slovenly like it was. Then she fell kind of sick, and though I felt sorry to see her doubled up and groaning, it had a good side to it, for I got a Chinaman in to cook at forty dollars a month, and he straightened things out fine and cleaned up the dirt of ages. I called in Doctor Funk, the regular physician, and for a time Rosie improved, getting well enough to nearly bite the cook’s finger off when he tried to stop her giving away a consignment of hams. But after a while she took sick again, the cramps coming back worse than ever, and I let Doc do what he could for her, which wasn’t much, though better than Funk, whose stuff didn’t seem any more good and had lost its effect.

Finally, early one morning, she was taken most awful bad, vomiting blood, and twisting and twitching in a way horrible to see, she being so mountainous fat, and gibbering crazily in the Gilbert language–all about me and little Benny, and devils snapping at her toes, and a giant squid what was dragging her down to drown. Then of a sudden she grew very quiet, and Doc, looking close to her face, said, “Good God, she is dead!” Yes, dead, just as Doctor Funk hurried in, glaring to see Doc there, and saying something out loud about God damn quacks, and looking and smelling savagely at the different bottles. Doc slunk out of sight, and then Funk, he calmed down, and spoke to me very sympathetic and kind as to what I was to do, and how, after all, it was a merciful release.

I buried her the same day, that being the rule in the tropics, and the better part of the town followed her to the grave in the foreign cemetery, that being a kind of rule or custom, too, in Apia, as well as everybody getting tight afterwards at the Tivoli bar.

It was a strange feeling to come back to the house and to know that Rosie was gone out of it forever, and that I had passed another big landmark in my life. For all it was such a release, I was bluer than blue, yet I won’t deny I was glad, too, but in a frightened kind of way, and half wishing again and again that she was back. Her running on about Benny and me before she died stuck in my throat, and seemed awful pitiful; and I remembered how pretty she once had been, and always such a good, true wife, and how me and the little store was all the world to her before sorrow broke her heart.

I went upstairs, and sat looking out on the bay, thinking it all over, and how in time death comes to every one of us, high or low; thinking, too, that I was a free man now–a prosperous, respected, looked-up-to man, and an ex-Councillor with a home that many a woman would consider well worth sharing. I wondered if Miss Nelson up at the Mission would consider a man as unrefined as I was and thirty-seven years old, she so sweet and young and with such gentle, winning ways. She was a governess to their children, and that made me think she would, for no woman likes to be a dependent and at the beck and call of another. I sat there dreaming of her, and of the place nicely fixed up, and of us driving out of a Sunday to Vailele in a smart little buggy, with me reelected to the Council, and people saying: “How d’ye do, won’t you drop in a moment”–to me and Miss Nelson, married.