"What's to become of the little lady?" asked Old Corrie, in a sympathising tone. The inquiry was addressed as much to himself as to Basil.
"That is one of the things that are troubling me, Corrie. You are a favourite of hers."
"I've seen her grow up, and remember her mother well. I've cause. Once when I was down with the colonial fever--almost as bad as the gold fever, Master Basil--Mrs. Bidaud as good as nursed me through it, coming or sending every day for two months and more, till I got strong. When I was well I went up to the house to thank her. The little lady was just toddling about, and made friends with me. I shall never forget Mrs. Bidaud; I went to her funeral. You stopped at my hut before you came here, I expect."
"Yes; I thought you might be there."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Only the sound of your axe in the woods."
"I mean inside the hut. There's a magpie there that's got the sense of a human being and a voice like a flute. I only got it a fortnight ago, and I've tamed it already, surprising. Back as white as snow, Master Basil, and breast and wings shining like black satin. A handsome bird, and quite young. It says 'Little lady; Little lady!' and 'Miss Annette!' in a way that'll astonish you. I'm doing it for the little lady herself, and I'm glad I began it because I'm going away."
"It will please her greatly, Corrie, if she is allowed to accept it."
"What's to prevent her? Poor little lady! First her mother, then her father. I thought there was trouble in your face when I saw it. Would you mind explaining, Master Basil, about this wood-splitting contract of mine? Why shouldn't I finish it till I made sure."
Then Basil told of the arrival of the dead man's brother and sister, and was not delicate in expressing his opinion of Gilbert Bidaud.