He followed her to the sitting-room. A little girl some seven or eight years old was sitting there, turning over the pages of a child's picture-book.
"Run and play, Genie," said the mother.
"Your little girl?" asked Basil, drawing the child to his knee.
"Yes, sir." Basil took half-a-crown from his pocket. "Ask mamma, by-and-by, to buy you a toy with this."
"What do you say, Genie?" cried the gratified mother.
"Thank you, sir," said the child, holding her bashful head down.
Basil gave her a kiss, and she ran to her mother with the half-crown, and afterwards left the room, shyly glancing at Basil, whose kind manners, no less than the half-crown, had won her heart. And the mother's also, it is almost needless to say.
Basil looked around the walls. No sign of a bird. Then he turned to the mantel-shelf and saw there the portrait of a young woman, bearing in her face a strong resemblance to Mrs. Crawford.
"Another daughter of yours," he observed. "I can see the likeness."
"Yes, sir, and a good girl, and a good daughter."