Thus they spent part of that memorable night of 26th August 1883 in earnest social intercourse, conversing chiefly and naturally about the character, causes, and philosophy of volcanoes, while Perboewatan and his brethren played a rumbling, illustrative accompaniment to their discourse.  The situation was a peculiar one.  Even the negro was alive to that fact.

“Ain’t it koorious,” he remarked solemnly in a moment of confidence after swallowing the last bite of his supper.  “Ain’t it koorious, Massa Nadgel, dat we’re a sottin’ here comf’rably enjoyin’ our wittles ober de mout’ ob a v’licano as is quite fit to blow us all to bits an’ hois’ us into de bery middle ob next week—­if not farder?”

“It is strange indeed, Moses,” said Nigel, who however added no commentary, feeling indisposed to pursue the subject.

Seeing this, Moses turned to his master.

“Massa,” he said.  “You don’ want nuffin’ more to-night, I s’pose?”

“No, Moses, nothing.”

“An’ is you quite easy in your mind?”

“Quite,” replied the hermit with his peculiar little smile.

“Den it would be wuss dan stoopid for me to be oneasy, so I’ll bid ye bof good-night, an’ turn in.”

In this truly trustful as well as philosophical state of mind, the negro retired to his familiar couch in the inner cave, and went to sleep.

Nigel and the hermit sat up for some time longer.

“Van der Kemp,” said the former, after a pause, “I—­I trust you won’t think me actuated by impertinent curiosity if I venture to ask you about —­the—­photograph that I think you——­”

“My young friend!” interrupted the hermit, taking the case in question from his breast pocket; “I should rather apologise to you for having appeared to make any mystery of it—­and yet,” he added, pausing as he was about to open the case, “I have not shown it to a living soul since the day that—­Well, well,—­why should I hesitate?  It is all I have left of my dead wife and child.”

He placed the case in the hands of Nigel, who almost sprang from his seat with excitement as he beheld the countenance of a little child of apparently three or four years of age, who so exactly resembled Kathy Holbein—­allowing of course for the difference of age—­that he had now no doubt whatever as to her being the hermit’s lost daughter.  He was on the point of uttering her name, when uncertainty as to the effect the sudden disclosure might have upon the father checked him.

“You seem surprised, my friend,” said Van der Kemp gently.

“Most beautiful!” said Nigel, gazing intently at the portrait.  “That dear child’s face seems so familiar to me that I could almost fancy I had seen it.”

He looked earnestly into his friend’s face as he spoke, but the hermit was quite unmoved, and there was not a shadow of change in the sad low tone of his voice as he said—­

“Yes, she was indeed beautiful, like her mother.  As to your fancy about having seen it—­mankind is formed in groups and types.  We see many faces that resemble others.”