"You bet! Biddy,"—and she lowered her voice,—"you know 'bout Isidore?"
The girl shuddered. "Yes."
"It was drink, drink, drink, like a fool. One day, when he works back in the woods with some of those Frenchmen out of France, he go for to do like them, an' roast a frog on the biler in the mill ingine. His brain overswelled, overfoamed, an' he fell agin the biler. Then he was dead."
"Hush,—don't talk about him; Claudine may hear you."
"How,—you know her?"
"I know everybody. Mr. Nimmo and his mother talked so often of the Bay. They do not wish Narcisse to forget."
"That's good. Does the Englishman's maw like the little one?"
"Yes, she does."
"Claudine ain't here," and Mirabelle Marie waddled through the kitchen, and directed her sneaks to the back stairway. "We'll skip up to her room."