In his heart Gilbert Bidaud was disposed to strangle the bird, but his smile was amiability itself as he said to Annette, "Yours, my child?"
"Yes, mine," she answered. "Mr. Corrie gave it to me."
"But Mr. Corrie is not rich," said Gilbert Bidaud, pulling out his purse; "you are. Shall we not pay him for it?"
"No," said Annette, before Old Corrie could speak. "I would not care for it if he took money for it."
"Well said, little lady," said Old Corrie; "the bird is friendship's offering, and for that will be valued and well cared for, I don't doubt. It is your property, mind, and no one has a right to meddle with it."
"Friendship's offering!" said Gilbert Bidaud, with a long, quiet laugh. "We came out to the bush to learn something, did we not, sister? Why, here we find the finest of human virtues and sentiments, the smuggest of moralities, the essence of refined feeling. It is really refreshing. Do not be afraid, Mr. Corrie. Although I would not take your word about that wood-splitting contract, I have some respect for you, as a rough specimen of bush life and manners. We part friends, I hope."
"Not a bit of it," said Old Corrie. "If ladies were not present I'd open my mind to you."
"Thank heaven," said Gilbert Bidaud, raising his eyes with mock devotion, "for the restraining influence of the gentler sex. You do not diminish my esteem for you. I know rough honesty when I meet with it."
"You shift about," interrupted Old Corrie, "like a treacherous wind. I'm rough honesty now, am I? You're the kind of man that can turn white into black. Let us make things equal by another sort of bargain. I've given little lady the bird. You'll not take it from her?"
"Heavens?" cried Gilbert Bidaud, clasping his hands. "What do you think of me?"