On the western slope of the Goenoeng Poleng—that mighty mass of rock which forms the nucleus, as it were, of the Karang Bollong range running along the South Coast of Java, and not far from the dessa Ajo there stood a modest little hut. To the traveller approaching from the North or from the South, it was completely hidden by the walls of rock which towered around it. Steeply rising ground but scantily covered with thin grass and prickly shrubs, shut out all view from the back of the little cabin. From either side also nothing could be seen but the rocky slopes, with here and there a small patch of arable ground. But the front of the hut offered a prospect which, for loveliness and variety, could hardly be equalled, certainly not surpassed; and which amply made up for the dreariness of the view on the other sides.  
From the small front gallery or verandah the incline ran [434]down pretty swiftly, and displayed to the eye a panorama which might in truth be called magnificent. Immediately beneath this verandah lay the mountain-slope; at first bald and bare, with huge weather-worn boulders scattered about here and there, and a few stunted shrubs. Between these a narrow pathway ran winding down. In its tortuous course it seemed to rival the brook, as, twisting and bubbling and splashing and foaming, it went merrily and swiftly dancing down its fantastically-cut bed. As gradually the slope ran down to the valley, the vegetable kingdom began to assert itself more and more. At first there appeared dwarf trees with curiously twisted trunks and strangely gnarled branches, these, in their turn, gave way to the more luxuriant representatives of the realm of Silvanus, and these again gradually merged into a rich plantation of fruit-bearing trees, above which the tall cocoa-nut palms reared their feathered heads waving and nodding to the breeze. Beyond this, at the foot of the mountain, lay the little dessa Ajo, snugly embowered in a mass of glossy foliage. Very pleasant to look at from the eminence were the dwellings of the native villagers with their neat brown roofs and bright yellow fences peeping here and there through the rich verdure, reflected in the waters of the Kali Djetis, which forms the western boundary of the dessa; and which, at that point, makes a majestic sweep before emptying itself by a wide mouth into the Indian Ocean.
 
The view of that ocean still further enhanced the beauty of the grand panorama which lay stretched out in front of the little hut. On a fine calm day the deep-blue expanse of water extended far—endlessly far—away to the horizon, glittering under the rays of the tropical sun like a metallic mirror; while numerous fishing boats, with their white but quaintly-shaped sails, hovered about the Moeara Djetis, and skimmed like birds over the glassy surface. When, however, the South-East trade was blowing stiffly, and the flood-tide helped to raise the waves, the aspect of the ocean was entirely changed. Then not a single boat was to be seen; but heavy breakers came tumbling in, and, as these reached the mouth of the river, and met the body of downflowing mountain water, they would tower up and roll along steadily for awhile as a huge wall of solid blue, then curl over into mighty crests, and finally break into a foam-sheet of dazzling whiteness. This magnificent spectacle, a kind of prororoca on a small scale, could be watched from the verandah in its minutest details. [435]
 
The hut itself was but a very poor little dwelling; constructed, as those places generally are, of such primitive materials as bamboo and atap. It consisted indeed merely of four walls and a roof. It had a door in front and behind, which gave access to a small verandah, while, in the side-walls, two square shutters did duty for windows. Whether or not the space within was divided into separate apartments we cannot tell. There are secrets into which a novelist must not venture to pry; and there are feelings which, even he, must know how to respect. It may be his duty—his painful duty—to introduce his readers to an opium-den, and reveal to them the horrors it conceals, if, by so doing, he may reasonably hope to do something to cure a crying evil; but he ought not, without sufficient reason, to invade the sacred rights of privacy by throwing open to his readers a cottage wherein—
 
But, modest as was the little building which stood there lonely and deserted on that mountain slope, and poor as was its outward appearance, yet there existed a very marked difference between it and the other cabins, the dwellings of the dessa people, far down at the foot of the mountain. The difference consisted herein, that it was scrupulously neat and clean, and bore no trace whatever of the slovenliness and general want of cleanliness which is too often the characteristic of the houses of the ordinary Javanese villager. The Javanese, indeed, are an Eastern race. As such they have certain points in common with all the other branches of the great Oriental family, whether we call them Moors, Hindoos, Arabs, Chinese, Egyptians, Berbers, aye, or even Greeks, Italians, or Spaniards. The entire house from top to bottom, from the roof of fresh nipah leaves to the hedge of yellow bamboo hurdle, looked bright and clean. The small plot of ground in front was carefully laid out as a trim garden with well kept paths and pretty bits of green lawn. The flower-beds also, and the ornamental shrubs, which grew around, spoke of careful tending, while an impenetrable hedge of the conyza indica enclosed the entire nook. At the back of the house lay a patch of grass, evidently used as a drying ground, for several articles of female apparel, such as slendangs, sarongs, and the like, were hanging on ropes stretched over bamboo poles, and fluttered in the breeze.
 
In the front gallery a single flower-pot was conspicuous, a thing very seldom found in any Javanese house, in which flowered a magnificent “Devoniensis” in full bloom; and close [436]by stood a native loom, at which a young girl was seated cross-legged on a low bamboo stool.
 
Wholly intent upon her work, she is plying the shuttle with nimble fingers. As novelist, we are, to some extent, a privileged being, and may venture to draw near though we would not intrude into the little house. The girl is so deeply absorbed in her task that we have leisure, unperceived, to examine the further contents of the verandah; but specially to watch its solitary occupant. That she has for some considerable time been hard at work, the reel tells us; for it already contains quite a thick roll of tissue, the result of her day’s toil; so does, likewise, the spinning-wheel, which stands hard by, ready to supply the shuttle with thread as soon as it may need replenishing.
 
As regards the girl herself, she is, just now, bending forward over her work so that we cannot catch even a glimpse of her features. Her dress, consisting of a simple jacket of light-blue cotton, and the sarong made of some dark-coloured material, with a gay flowering pattern, proclaim her to be a Javanese. So also do the hands and such parts of the face and neck as we are able to see, by their brownish yellow tint. So again does the hair which is combed away smooth from the forehead and rolled up at the back of the head in a thick heavy kondeh or plait.
 
Aye, but—that kondeh, however carefully it may have been plaited and fastened up, yet it at once awakens our curiosity. Little rebellious locks have here and there strayed away, and very unlike the stiff straight hair of full-bred Javanese beauties, they curl and cluster lovingly around the plait, while the shorter hair under the kondeh also forms crisp little curls which cast a dark shade over the light-brown neck.
 
“Might she be a nonna after all?” we murmur inaudibly.
 
Our suspicion is strengthened when, by the side of the little stool, our eye lights upon a pair of tiny slippers. These slippers are not remarkable in any way, they are of the simplest make and wholly devoid of ornament; but it strikes us at once that in Java girls or women hardly ever wear such things, and then—more remarkable still—their size and shape point to the fact that the owner’s feet in no way correspond to the broad, splay feet of the natives.
 
As we stand wondering and losing ourselves in surmises, the weaving girl very slightly changes her position, and one snow-white toe comes peeping out from under her sarong. The [437]startling difference of colour betrays the secret at once: She is a nonna!
 
Wholly unconscious of our proximity the girl looks up and casts a single glance at the fair view stretched out before her—she utters a deep sigh and—
 
“That face,” we murmur inwardly, “where have we seen that pretty face?”
 
We have, however, no time to collect our thoughts, for, the next moment as the young girl is again bowing her head to resume her work, a quick light footstep is heard on the path which leads to Ajo. The girl looks up, evidently scared at the unusual sound, she peers anxiously forward and then, almost bereft of the power of speech by the suddenness of the surprise, she gasps forth the cry, “Dalima!”
 
Yes, it is indeed Dalima who, with nimble step, has crossed the garden and is now running up to the verandah. The weaving-girl starts up from her stool, and before her unexpected visitor has time to mount the three steps, the pair are locked in each other’s embrace and forming, as it were, but one exclamation we hear the words:
 
“Nana!”
 
“Dalima!”
 
Now the mystery is cleared up, now we recognize at once both the one and the other. That weaving girl is Anna van Gulpendam and the other is poor Dalima whom we followed in her anxious and painful search as far as Karang Anjer when we lost sight of her until now.
 
“Where have you come from?” asked Anna, as again and again she clasped the Javanese girl to her breast.
 
“To-day I came from the dessa Ajo,” archly replied Dalima.
 
“What brought you there?”
 
“Well, I came from the dessa Pringtoetoel, that’s where I was yesterday.”
 
“But,” continued Anna, “what business had you there?”
 
“The day before that,” resumed Dalima not heeding the interruption, “I was at Gombong and the day before that again at Karang Anjer.”
 
“At Karang Anjer?” exclaimed Anna. “What induced you to go there?”
 
“To look for my Nana,” was the reply.
 
“To look for me? Is that why you have come all the way from Santjoemeh? Have you undertaken so long a journey to look for me?—and in your condition too!” [438]
 
Anna spoke these last words with some hesitation, while the furtive glance she cast at the poor girl’s figure left no doubt as to her meaning.
 
“Yes, Nana,” replied Dalima very quietly and without the least trace of confusion. “As soon as ever I left the prison, thanks to the aid of the young judge,” continued she, as she fixed one penetrating look upon Anna who felt the blood fly up to her cheeks at the words, “I went to look after my mother. Thanks again to toean Nerekool, I found her and the children well provided for. My next thought was for my Nana. The toean had told me that the nonna was no longer staying at Karang Anjer but had left, and had vanished without leaving a trace behind her. I thought I could guess why. I knew how lonely, how forsaken, how utterly miserable my dear Nana must feel. An irresistible longing came over me—the longing you know of a young woman in my situation—” she added with a faint sad smile, “to go at once and look for Nana so that I might be of some service to her. I started and—”
 
“Does toean van Nerekool know of all this?” asked Anna much alarmed.
 
“No, Nana, he knows nothing whatever about it.”
 
“You did not tell him what you were going to do?”
 
“No, Nana, I did not.”
 
“Might you not perhaps have dropped some hint to Mr. van Nerekool, or may be to your mother? Do, Dalima, try and remember!”
 
“No, I have not given toean Charles the slightest hint of my intention. I told my mother that I was going to seek for you.”
 
“Where?” asked Anna.
 
“Well, Nana, at Karang Anjer.”
 
“But you knew that you would not find me at Karang Anjer?”
 
“Oh, I knew that; but I wanted to see Mrs. Steenvlak. I thought she would be sure to tell me where you had gone.”
 
“Did you go to Mrs. Steenvlak?” inquired Anna,
 
“Yes, Nana.”
 
“And—?”
 
“I could learn nothing from her. The njonja confessed that she knew where you were; but she refused to tell me—she said she had promised not to let anyone know.”
 
Anna drew a deep sigh of relief.
 
“But how then did you manage to find me, Dalima?” she asked. [439]
 
“Well, Nana, how shall I tell you that? It is such a long story. I have been wandering about in all directions, I have made inquiries everywhere. I asked at the posting-houses, at the loerahs of each dessa I passed through. I questioned the gardoes and the stall-keepers on the road. In fact I asked everywhere and everybody. In my wanderings, at length I happened to come to th............