Basil and Annette. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

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      "You have your future to look to," said Bidaud.

      "There is time enough to think of that," said Basil, cheerfully. "I am not so very old."

      Many a time did Bidaud look with eyes of affection at Basil, and wish he had a son like him to whom he could entrust his darling Annette. Basil was a man peculiarly adapted to inspire affection in honest, simple hearts, and such a bond grew between him and Annette. Happy is the man whose manners cause children to regard him as one of themselves; he possesses an inheritance of pleasant hours which money cannot purchase. Basil and Annette, then, spent a great deal of time together, accompanied by the faithful Bruno, and it gladdened the father's heart to see his child so happy in the society of their new friend.

      "Father says your name is Whittingham," said Annette.

      "Yes, it is," said the young man.

      "Mr. Whittingham."

      "Yes. Do you like it?"

      "No. You must have another name."

      "Of course I have. Basil."

      "Basil. That is much nicer, ever so much nicer. I shall call you Basil."

      "I shall feel honoured, Annette."

      This compact being made, Annette took him in hand; the little maid had already discovered that she knew a great deal which he did not, and she set up a school, with Basil as her only pupil. Whether what she taught was likely to be of use to him in the battle of life he was bound to fight is an open question. Had some foreknowledge come upon him as to the nature of that battle, and the roads into which it would lead him, he would have laughingly rejected it as the wildest of fancies. He was quite content with the present; he had found an enchanting companion, and time was passing delightfully. During Annette's five years of motherless life she had acquired a wonderful knowledge of the fauna and the flora of the colony, and to these mysteries she introduced Basil. It is not incorrect to call them mysteries, for they are really so to ninety-nine out of every hundred colonials, who spend their lives in ignorance of the wonders by which they are surrounded. But it is so in all lands.

      Annette, then, opened Basil's mind, and let in knowledge. She showed him how to snare game, which abounded in vast quantities, snipe, quail, and numerous varieties of duck, of which the whistling duck is the most curious, and the black duck the best eating; she taught him the names of the strange and beautiful birds which found their home in the scrub and forests round about; she described to him the different trees which grew in the neighbourhood of the beautiful Pioneer River, and would not rest contented till he was familiar with them, and could give them their right names.

      "What is this, Basil?"

      "What is this, Annette? Why, a tree."

      "But what kind of tree?"

      "Oh, I beg your pardon. Ha-hum-oh, yes, it is the tea-tree."

      "It is not, Basil. It is the bottle-tree."

      "Well, the bottle-tree. Of course it is the bottle-tree. How could I be so stupid?"

      "You are not stupid; you are inattentive. Do you see this hole cut in the tree?"

      "Of course I do."

      "I will not have that answer. 'Of course I do' sounds as if I had no right to ask the question. Say 'I do.'"

      "I do."

      "And mean it, if you please."

      "I mean it," said Basil, with his hand on his heart, and a merry twinkle in his eyes.

      "Very good. You see the hole. Who cut it?"

      "On my word of honour, Annette, I haven't the slightest idea."

      "It was cut by the blacks. Now, what did they cut it for?"

      "How on earth should I know?"

      "You ought to know. You have been brought up in a very bad school. I'll show you what for. Out with your knife, Basil. Dig it in here, a long way under the hole. That is right. Now you can have a good drink of cold sweet water. Is it not wonderful?"

      "Indeed it is. Like Oliver Twist, I ask for more."

      The conversation instantly took another turn. There were but few books on the home station, and among them no work of fiction. It fell to Basil's lot to open a new fairyland in the young girl's life. "What was Oliver Twist?" "He was not a 'what'; he was a 'who.'" "Then who was Oliver Twist?" Basil told the story as well as he could, and afterwards told another; and after the second tale, still another, this time a more simple one, from the magic cupboard of Hans Christian Andersen. It was long before they resumed their woodland lessons. Annette pointed out where the best figs and almonds grew, instructed him how to make bracelets and necklaces out of the stones of the quandong fruit, and where the sugar bags of the native bees were to be found. They caught a native bear, not a very ferocious creature and tamed it in a few days so thoroughly that it followed them about like a dog, to the disgust of Bruno, who did not approve of the proceeding; they gathered wild ginger and wild nutmegs in the scrub, and in a famous creek they caught quantities of golden perch, with red eyes and double chins; and once they saw two emus in the distance, and heard the faint sound of their peculiar whistle. In such-like idling the days flew by, and the hours were all too short, but suddenly it dawned upon Basil that this lotus life could not last for ever. It was from a sense of duty, and with a sinking heart (for the thought of parting from these good friends, especially from Annette, sorely oppressed him) that he intimated to Anthony Bidaud that he had lingered too long, and must go farther afield.

      "I must not outstay my welcome," he said.

      "You cannot do that," said Bidaud. "Are you not happy here?"

      "Too happy."

      "No, one cannot be too happy," said Bidaud, in a tone of great sadness. There was that weighing on his heart which he yearned to impart to some person in whom he could confide. He had thought of it for days past, and had resolved to unbosom his sorrow to the young gentleman who had brought a new light of tenderness into the prosperous home.

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