"I can't imagine, Corrie," replied Basil.
"The words were, 'Little lady, little lady! Basil and Annette! Basil, Basil, Basil-dear Basil!'"
"Corrie," cried Basil, in a voice of wonder and joy, "you are not deceiving me!"
"No, Master Basil, I am telling you the plain truth. You may imagine by your own feelings the effect those words had upon me. What bird but the magpie I had trained and taught for little lady could have uttered them? And after all these years too! I could scarcely believe my ears, but there was the bird, piping away at the window-I turned and saw it in a cage-calling to me, in a manner of speaking, to come and say how do you do? I went straight up to the house and knocked at the door. The woman who opened it started back at sight of the bear. 'It won't hurt you, ma'am,' I said, 'there's not a bit of vice in it. I've come to ask you something about a bird you've got. It's an old friend of mine, and I trained it for a young lady in Australia, and taught it some of the things it says.' 'Sure enough,' said the woman, keeping as far away from Bruno as she could, the bird's an Australian bird, and the young lady it belongs to was born in Australia. Emily's not at home now-' 'Not Emily, ma'am, begging your pardon,' I said, interrupting her; 'Miss Annette's the young lady I mean. Her father's name was Bidaud, and Basil, one of the names I taught the magpie to speak, was a dear friend of hers and mine.' 'Oh, yes,' said the woman, 'I know all about that. My daughter Emily is Miss Bidaud's maid, and she is taking care of the bird for her mistress for a little while. Emily's home for a holiday, but she's gone to see some friends in London, and won't be back till the day after to-morrow. Can I do anything of you?' 'You can tell me, if you please,' said I, 'where Miss Annette is. I'm sure she'll be glad to see me,' My idea was, Master Basil, to see little lady and ask her if she had any news of you, though I wanted, too, to see her for her own sake. Well, all at once the woman grew suspicious of me, and instead of speaking civil she spoke snappish. 'No,' she said, 'I shan't tell you anything about Miss Bidaud. You're a showman, travelling about with a big, nasty bear, and likely as not you're up to no good.' I didn't fire up; the woman had fair reason on her side. 'I'm a respectable man, ma'am,' I said, 'and it's only by accident I came into company with Bruno. My name's Corrie, and Miss Annette would thank you for telling me where she is.' But she wouldn't, Master Basil; all that I could get out of her was that I might come and see Emily the day after to-morrow, and her daughter could then do as she liked about telling me what I wanted to know. I went away with the determination to come back and have a talk with little lady's maid, but things don't always turn out as we want them to do. Very seldom indeed. That night there was a great hubbub in the place I was stopping at. Bruno had broke loose and gone goodness knows where, and all sorts of stupid stories got about that the bear was mad and was biting everybody it met. I had to go in search of the creature, and the police kept me in sight. A pretty dance Bruno led me. I was hunting for it three days and nights, and when I found it at last it was in a sorry plight. I shall never forget that evening, Master Basil. I don't know the rights of the story, but I was certain that Bruno had been set upon by dogs and men-it had marks of fresh wounds upon its body-and been hunted from place to place. When I caught sight of the bear it was lying by the side of a little pool, and at a little distance were some twenty men and boys pelting it with stones. I scattered them right and left, and knelt by Bruno's side. The poor beast tried to raise its head, but couldn't, and I got some water from the pool, which was all mudded with the stone-throwing, and bathed its mouth. It thanked me with its eyes-it did, Master Basil-and did its best to lick my hand. Its chest went up and down like billows of the sea, and once it gave a great sob as if its heart was broke. After that it got quieter, but it could neither eat nor drink. A policeman came up and told me to move on. 'Come, Bruno,' I said, 'march, my man. The law's got its eyes on you.' The creature actually managed to stand, and, more than that, got up on its hind legs as it did when it was performing. It pawed the air a little, and looked at me for orders, and then fell down all of a heap. 'Come,' said the policeman, 'you must move on, the pair of you.' 'Not possible, the pair of us,' said I, sorrowfully. 'Try if your truncheon can bring it to life.' Bruno dead was much more difficult to manage than Bruno alive. I had to pay money to get rid of its body, and then somebody summoned me for a scratch or a bite Bruno had given him, he said, and I had to pay money for that. All this took me some time, and I had very little money left at the end of it. I hadn't the heart to go back to Bournemouth to get little lady's address. What should I do with it when I got it? Go to her and beg? No, I was too proud for that. Most likely she was with her uncle, Mr. Gilbert Bidaud, the gentleman who wouldn't respect a dead brother's word, and I knew what I might expect from him. So I gave up the idea and came to London-came here to starve, Master Basil, for I could get no work to do, and have gone through more than I care to tell of. If I hadn't met you to-night I should have wandered about the streets, as I've done for many and many a night already; but I'll not dwell upon it. I've told my story as straight as I could."
CHAPTER XXXVI
"It is a strange story," said Basil, "but less strange than the story I have to relate. We have both experienced the pangs of hunger and solitude, with wealth and luxury all around us. What chiefly interests me is your adventure in Bournemouth. Emily, you said, is the name of Annette's maid?"
"So her mother said."
"And the mother's name?"
"I ascertained that-Crawford."
"Do you know the name of the street in which she lives?"
"Lomax Road. I put it down on paper."
"If we were in Bournemouth, you could take me to the house?"
"Straight."
"We will go there to-morrow; there will be little sleep for us to-night, Corrie. As regards Annette do you draw any conclusions about her character-for the Child and the woman are frequently at odds with one another-from the incident of the bird?"
"I do; Master Basil. I draw the sign of constancy. None but a constant nature would have kept the bird so long, would have valued it so long, would have taught it new words.
"New words!"
"Yes, Master Basil. If it said 'dear Basil' once, it said it twenty times while the woman and I were talking. When I gave the bird to little lady it couldn't say 'dear,' so she must have taught the lesson with her own pretty lips. A straw will tell which way the wind blows."
"Thank you, Corrie. When you have heard me out you will understand what all this means to me." The recital of his adventures occupied him over an hour, and Corrie listened with bent brows and without a single word of interruption. His pipe went out, and he made no attempt to relight it; the only movement he made was to turn his head occasionally, as though something Basil had just said had inspired a new thought. Basil brought his narrative down to this very night, and paused only when he came to where Old Corrie accosted him at the street door. "What do you think of it, Corrie?" he asked, when he had finished. "It is wonderful," said Corrie. "My story is but a molehill by the side of your mountain. There's no time to lose, Master Basil; a day, an hour, may be precious, if little lady is to be saved."
"No time shall be lost," said Basil; "an hour's rest in our clothes after we've done talking, and at daybreak we are off to see how soon and how quickly we can get to Bournemouth. There is a question I haven't asked you. How long is it since you were in Bournemouth?"
"It must be six months, quite; but I kept no account of time. What a fool I was not to go back and see Emily Crawford!"
"We'll waste no time in lamenting. What is past is past, and no man can foresee what is in the future. Do you see, now, how important your evidence is likely to be to me? Without it I might be compelled to pass through life bearing the shameful name of the villain who betrayed me. Corrie, there are anxious and dreaded possibilities in the future to which I dare not give utterance. I can only hope and work. Now let us rest."
He wanted Corrie to take his bed, but Corrie refused, and, throwing himself on the floor, was soon asleep. Not so Basil; the events of the night had been too exciting for forgetfulness, and though he dozed off now and then, his brain did not rest a moment. He was none the worse for it in the morning; despite the trials he had undergone his naturally strong constitution asserted itself and enabled him to bear more than an ordinary amount of fatigue. The moment he arose from his bed Old Corrie jumped to his feet as brisk as a lark.
"I'm a new man, Master Basil," he said; "the prospect of something to do is as good as wine to me. There's no curse like the curse of idleness."
They washed and breakfasted, and then went out. It was early morning, and there were not many people astir.
"We are going first," said Basil, "to see Mr. Philpott, of whom I told you last night. I have an impression that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud is not in England. If we are fortunate enough in striking the trail, and he is in a foreign country, the task we are set upon may be long and difficult. I am debating whether it would be advisable to ask Philpott to accompany us."
"From your opinion of him," said Corrie, "he is a man to be trusted."
"Thoroughly."
"In a foreign country I should be next door to useless, except to prove that you are yourself. Mr. Philpott is accustomed to such jobs as this, and knows the tricks of hunting men down. I should say take him."
"I will, if he is agreeable. He doesn't know who I really am, though he has perhaps a suspicion of the truth, and it will be necessary that I should tell him my story. If he can come with us I shall have no hesitation in confiding in him."
They found the Philpott family at breakfast.
"I thought we were early birds, sir," said Mr. Philpott, while his wife dusted two chairs for the visitors, "but there are other birds, I see, more wide-awake than we are. Why, it's barely seven o'clock! Breakfast done when the clock strikes-that's my notion of bringing up a family."
"I've something of importance to say to you," said Basil, "when you've finished."
"Finished now, sir," said Philpott; "always ready for business. We'll talk outside if you don't mind. Mother hasn't had time to do the rooms yet." They walked up and down the quiet street, and after Basil had ascertained that Philpott was able and willing to accompany him, and that the next train for Bournemouth did not start for a couple of hours, he communicated to Philpott all he considered it necessary that worthy man should know of his history.
"A singular story, sir," said Philpott, "about as good as anything that's come my way up to now. I always told mother there was something out of the common about you. That Mr. Chaytor must be an out-and-outer-as cunning as they make 'em now-a-days. It's as well you should have a man like me with you. I know the ropes; you don't. Let's get to the office, sir. I must give 'em notice I'm going away on an important job. Luckily there's nothing very particular on hand just now." This preliminary was soon accomplished, and Basil and his companions arrived at Waterloo Station a few minutes before the train started for Bournemouth. On the road it was arranged that Basil should go alone to Mrs. Crawford's house.
"The woman might be frightened," said Philpott, "at three men coming to make inquiries. To a gentleman like you she will be open and frank."
Leaving Old Corrie and Philpott on the beach, Basil walked to Lomax Road, the number of the house in which Mrs. Crawford lived being 14, as he was informed by an obliging resident. He lingered outside, and looked up at the windows for signs of the magpie, but no sound reached his ears, and with somewhat of a despondent feeling he knocked at the door. So much depended upon the next few minutes! If he should have to leave Mrs. Crawford unsatisfied, without a clue to guide him, he would be no further advanced than on the day he first set foot in London. All he wanted was a starting point, and he vowed to leave no stone unturned to obtain it, and that once he gained it, he would follow it up till it led him to the end. The door was opened, and a decent-looking woman stood before him.
"Mrs. Crawford?" he said.
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to speak to you upon a subject very dear to me; I can offer no other excuse for intruding upon you."
"There was an unconscious wistfulness in his voice, which interested Mrs. Crawford. There is no surer way of winning a woman's sympathies than by appealing to them in some such way as this, and making them understand it is in their power to assist you.
"Are you a Bournemouth gentleman, sir?" asked Mrs. Crawford.
"No, I have never been in Bournemouth before to-day. I have travelled a long distance to see you."
"Will you walk in, sir?"
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."
"I am sure she is. Might I inquire her name?"
"Emily, sir."
"Is she at home?"
"No, sir; she is abroad with her mistress."
Basil's heart beat high with hope already there was something gained.
"Am I mistaken in my belief," he asked, "that her mistress is Miss Annette Bidaud?"
"That is the young lady's name, sir. I hope you will excuse my asking why you keep on looking round the room, and why you looked up at the windows of the house in the same way before you knocked at the street-door? I saw you, sir."
"I was looking for an old friend I had an idea was here."
"An old friend, sir?"
"Yes, a magpie that Miss Bidaud brought with her from Australia."
Mrs. Crawford's face flushed up, and she said in a tone of vexation:
"It was here a little while, sir, and it got me into trouble. But it was nobody's fault but my own. Excuse me again, sir-you speak as if you knew Miss Bidaud."
"I knew her intimately; she and I were, and I hope are, very dear friends. Her father and I had a great esteem for each other."
"That was in Australia, sir?"
"That was in Australia. Miss Bidaud was but a child at the time."
"You have seen her since, I suppose, sir?"
"I have not. To be frank with you, that is the object of my visit to you. I earnestly desire to know where she is."
"She is a beautiful young lady now, sir," said Mrs. Crawford; diverging a little; from the expression on her face she seemed to be considering something as she gazed attentively at Basil. "Perhaps you can recognise her."
She handed Basil an album, and he turned over its pages till he came to a portrait which rivetted his attention. It was the portrait of Annette; he recognised it instantly, but how beautiful she had grown! An artist had coloured the picture, and the attractive subject must have interested him deeply, so well and skilfully was the colouring done. The gracefully-shaped head, the long, golden-brown hair, the lovely hazel eyes, magnetised Basil, as it were. There was a pensive look in the eyes, and something of wistfulness in the expression of the mouth, which Basil construed into a kind of appeal. It may be forgiven him if he thought that it was to him the mute face was appealing. Long and earnestly did he gaze: reminiscences of the happy hours they had passed together floated through his mind; her confidence, her trust in him, and her father's last words on the evening on which he had accepted the guardianship of his child, were never less powerful and, sacred in the sense they conveyed of a duty yet to be performed than they were at this moment. When, at length, he raised his eyes from the portrait, Mrs. Crawford saw tears in them. Had she had any doubts of her visitor, these tears would have dispelled them.
"Is she not lovely, sir?"
"She has the face of an angel."
"That is what my Emily says, sir; she dotes on my young lady, sir, and would work her fingers to the bone to serve her."
"Miss Miss Bidaud, then, has one faithful friend by her side."
"You may say that, sir. There have been mistresses and servants but there never was mistress and servant so bound to each other as my Emily and my young lady."
"They are in Europe?"
"Oh, yes, sir, they are in Europe. I'll tell you presently where, but I must finish what I was saying at first. It was about the magpie-the bird you were looking for-as sensible a feathered thing as ever piped a note. Emily wanted badly to come and see me, and some other of her relations in England, and it happened that her uncle and guardian Mr. Gilbert Bidaud-you know the gentleman, sir?" asked Mrs. Crawford, breaking off suddenly; she had noticed a dark flash in Basil's eyes at the mention of the name.
"I had a brief acquaintance with him in Australia," replied Basil.
"Do you like him, sir? Is he a friend of yours?"
Before he replied he looked attentively at her, and a tacit understanding seemed to pass between them. Without further hesitation he answered:
"I do not like him. He is no friend of mine."
Mrs. Crawford nodded her head in a satisfied manner, and said:
"The more likely you are to be a friend of Miss Bidaud's. Well, sir, it happened that Mr. Gilbert Bidaud was going to pay a flying visit to several foreign places, and, of course, was going to take my young lady with him. He never lets her out of his sight if he can help it, but Emily is very nearly a match for him. I don't say quite, but very nearly, Emily is clever. Mr. Bidaud made a great fuss about taking the bird and the cage with them on this journey, and wanted my young lady to leave it behind, but she wouldn't, and proposed instead that Emily should have her holiday while they were away and should take care of the bird and take it back when her holiday was over. That is how the bird came to be here. Eight months ago it was, and Emily was away on a visit, when a man with a great ugly bear came to the house and began to ask questions about the bird. He said just what you said, that it was an old friend of his, and that he'd trained it for my young lady in Australia. He knew my young lady's name, and he wanted me to tell him where she was to be found. Well, sir, I don't know how it was, but I got suspicious of him. What business could a common-looking man like him have with a young lady like Miss Bidaud? As like as not he wanted to impose upon her, and it wasn't for me to help him to do that. It didn't look well, did it, sir, that a man going about the country with a bear should be trapesing after my young lady? So I was very short with him, and I refused to tell him anything, but said if he liked to come in a day or two Emily would be home, and then he could speak to her about my young lady. He went away, after leaving his name-Corrie, it was-and I never set eyes on him again. That seemed to prove I'd done right, but I hadn't, for Emily said, when she came home, that my young lady thought a good deal of this Mr. Corrie, and had often spoken of him, and that he did train and give her the bird, just as he said he had. Emily said my young lady would be very sorry when she heard I'd turned Mr. Corrie away, and that she would give a good deal if she could see the poor man. Every letter I get from my daughter she asks me if I've seen anything more of Mr. Corrie, and to be sure if I do to tell him where my young lady is stopping. I could beat myself with vexation when I think of it. Perhaps you could tell me something of him, as you were all in Australia at the same time."
"I can. He is here with me in Bournemouth."
"Here in Bournemouth, sir! Oh, what a relief you have given me!"
"He told you a true story, Mrs. Crawford, every word of it, and is a sterling, honest fellow. You see how wrong it is to judge people by their appearance."
"Perhaps it is, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, a little doubtfully, and added, with excusable flattery, "I judged you by yours, sir. I hope you will bring Mr. Corrie here, but not his bear, sir, and I'll beg his pardon."
"No need to do that; Corrie is the last man to blame you for doing what you believed to be right. As for the poor bear, it is dead. I will go and fetch Corrie presently, and you can make it up with him; but tell me now where Miss Bidaud is to be found."
"She is in Switzerland, with her uncle and aunt, sir."
"I want the exact address, Mrs. Crawford, if you please."
"Here it is, sir, on a piece of paper. It is my Emily's writing, sir."
Basil wrote down the address: "Villa Bidaud, Fernex, near Geneva, Switzerland." His hand trembled as he wrote. At last he was fairly on the track of the traitor. His heart beat tumultuously, and for a moment he was overcome with dizziness; but he immediately recovered himself, and continued the conversation. "Do you write to your daughter to this address?"
"Yes, sir."
"Villa Bidaud. That sounds as if it were a long-established residence."
"They live there on and off, sir, for a few weeks or a few months at a time. I think when they go travelling the house is shut up."
"Your daughter has doubtless given you a description of the house. Is it small or large?"
"Large, I should say, and very old. There must be a good many rooms in it, and it stands in the middle of a very large garden."
"Mrs. Crawford, look at me."
Somewhat surprised at the request, Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil, and saw a face quivering with earnestness, and eyes in which truth and honour shone.
"Yes, sir," she said, and waited. "I want you to be certain that I am a man who is to be trusted."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"That I am a man who would do no woman wrong, and that in my present visit to you I am animated by an honest, earnest desire to serve the young lady your daughter serves and loves."
"I am certain of it, sir."
"Being certain of it," said Basil, "is there nothing more you can tell me that might aid me in my desire to be of service to Miss Bidaud? I gather from what you have said that your daughter is sincerely attached to her young mistress, and she will know whether Miss Bidaud is happy or not."
"I'm not sure, sir," said Mrs. Crawford, speaking slowly, "whether I've a right to tell everything, you being a stranger to me."
"But not a stranger to Miss Bidaud," said Basil, eagerly, "remember that, Mrs. Crawford. Next to her father, I was in Australia her dearest friend-"
"Are you sure of that, sir?" interrupted Mrs. Crawford. "We sometimes deceive ourselves. My young lady, to my knowledge had a friend in Australia-a young gentleman like yourself-she thought all the world of. Emily says she was never tired of speaking about him and of his kindness to her. His name is Mr. Basil Whittingham. Perhaps you are acquainted with him?"
"I know something of him," said Basil. He had been on the point of disclosing himself, but remembrance of the part Newman Chaytor was playing checked him in time.
"Of course, there may be others," continued Mrs. Crawford, "and it isn't for me to dispute with you; but if there's one thing that is more positive than another, it is that my young lady thought all the world of Mr. Whittingham. You are Miss Bidaud's friend, and you don't seem to think much of her uncle. That's the way with us. My Emily hates the very sight of him-though she doesn't let him see it, you may be sure, sir-because of the way he behaves to Miss Bidaud. How I come to know so much about Mr. Whittingham is, because all the letters he wrote to Miss Bidaud from Australia were addressed to my care. If they hadn't been, my young lady's uncle or aunt would have got hold of them and she would never have seen them. When they arrived I used to put them in an envelope and address them to my Emily-not to Villa Bidaud, but to different post-offices, according to the directions she gave me."
"Were there many of these letters?" asked Basil, keeping guard upon his feelings.
"About one every six or seven months, sir."
"Are you aware whether they afforded pleasure to Miss Bidaud?"
"Yes, sir, they gave her the greatest possible pleasure. She was always happy after she got one, so my Emily wrote to me. That makes it all the stranger."
"Makes what all the stranger?" Again Mrs. Crawford looked at Basil with a possible doubt of the wisdom of her loquacity; but she was naturally a gossip, and the sluice being open the waters continued to flow.
"Well, sir, my young lady had set her heart upon Mr. Whittingham coming home-that much my daughter knew from what she said; and, although she said nothing about it to Emily, there was something else she set her heart upon. There are some things, you know, sir, a delicate-minded young lady doesn't tell her best friend till they're settled; and perhaps Miss Bidaud herself didn't quite know what her feelings for Mr. Whittingham were. She was very young when she left Australia, and her uncle hadn't been anxious to introduce her to society, so since she's been home she has seen very little of young men. But lookers on can see most of the game, sir, and my Emily said to me, 'When Mr. Whittingham comes home there'll be a match made up, you see if there won't, mother.' 'But how about the uncle?' I asked, for it was pretty clear to me, from what I heard, that there was no love lost between Mr. Bidaud and Mr. Whittingham. Then my Emily tells me that, for all my young lady's gentle ways and manners, she sometimes showed a will of her own when anything very dear to her was in question. That is how she has been able to keep the bird Mr. Corrie gave her; if it hadn't been that she was determined, her uncle would have made away with it long ago. I didn't quite agree with Emily. I argued like this, sir. Supposing, when Mr. Whittingham came home, he and my young lady found they loved each other, and made a match of it. So far, all well and good; but the moment Mr. Bidaud discovered it, he would take steps. He is Miss Bidaud's natural guardian, and my young lady is not yet of age. What would her uncle do? Whip her away, and take her where Mr. Whittingham couldn't get at her. Perhaps discharge Emily, and so deprive Miss Bidaud of every friend she has, and of every opportunity of acting contrary to him. He's artful enough to carry that out. I don't quite know the rights of it, but Emily says he has control of all my young lady's fortune, and she don't believe he has any of his own. Well, then, does it stand to reason that he would let the money he lives upon slip through his fingers through any carelessness of his own, or that he would hand it quietly over to a man he hates like poison? That's the way I urged, sir, but it's all turned out different. Of course you know, sir, that Mr. Basil Whittingham's come home."
"I have heard so," said Basil, quietly.
"And has come into a great fortune!"
"I have heard that, also."
"Miss Bidaud was overjoyed when she saw him, and her uncle was the other way. But if Emily's last two letters mean anything they mean that things have got topsy turvy like. Mr. Whittingham and Mr. Bidaud are great friends now, and as for my young lady being happy, that's more than I can say. There's no understanding young people now; it was different in my time; but there, they say the course of true love never runs smooth. One thing seems pretty plain-there's a screw loose somewhere in Villa Bidaud. And now, sir, I've told you everything, and likely as, not I've been too free, and done what I shouldn't. If I have done wrong I shall never hear the last of it from Emily."
"You will live to acknowledge," said Basil, "that you have done right, and that your confidence is not misplaced. I thank you from my heart, and am grateful for the good fortune that led me to you. Mrs. Crawford, I don't like to offer you money for the service you have rendered me, though I hope I shall be in the humour to insist, before long, upon your allowing me to make a fitting acknowledgment. But there is something I should wish to purchase of you."
"I have nothing to sell, sir, that you would care to have."
"I would give more than its weight in gold," said Basil, laying his hand upon the album, "for the portrait of Miss Bidaud. You can have no idea of the value it would be to me, and how much I should esteem your kindness. Let me have it, I entreat you."
"I don't like to part with it," said Mrs. Crawford, looking admiringly at Basil, "but I can't refuse you. Take it, sir."
Basil quickly availed himself of the permission, and put a sovereign on the table, saying, "For little Genie. Buy her a pretty frock with it." Then wishing her good day, and thanking her again he left her to rejoin Old Corrie and Mr. Philpott on the beach, and communicate the good news to them. Half-an-hour later Old Corrie paid a visit to Mrs. Crawford, and received her profuse excuses for the abrupt manner in which he had behaved to him.
"Nobody can blame you, ma'am," said Corrie, "for fighting shy of a bear. It's a wonder to me now how I came to be mates with the creature. But he was a worthy comrade, ma'am, rough as his outside was-a deal worthier than some men I've met with. And I shall never forget it, ma'am, because in the first place it brought me straight to you, and in the second place it's taking me straight to a little lady."