Basil and Annette. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

enchanted him; the ravishing scenery enchanted him; the quaint old city, so home-like in its appearance, enchanted him. Certainly he had come to the right place.

      He was rather more melancholy a few weeks afterwards, but he never lost heart. Suitable employment did not present itself so readily as he had thought it would, and gold was not to be picked up in the streets. "I am making a mistake," he said. "I must not remain in the city; I must go into the bush." He soon made a start, and began tramping Queensland way, and after some weeks of wondering reached the tract of country which Anthony Bidaud had taken up.

      CHAPTER II

      On the plantation which he had brought almost to perfection by twenty years of wise labour Anthony Bidaud lived with his only child, Annette, fourteen years of age. He had no other of his kindred near him. The wife he brought from Switzerland lay in a flower-covered grave within a mile of the spot upon which he stood. They came to the colony childless, but after a lapse of years Annette was born to them. Until the child was nine years of age the fond mother was spared to rear her, and then one morning Annette awoke to find the dear protector lost to her. It was an irreparable loss in that far-away land, and there was no one of her own sex to take the mother's place. But Annette had her father left, and he, not unsuccessfully, strove to fill the void in his child's life. He was unremitting in his tenderness and watchfulness, and he bestowed upon his little one a full-hearted love. The two had lived together till now, when Anthony Bidaud's heart was gloomed by the fear of approaching death. He had never been strong, and the climate of the new world in which he had made his home was destined to be fatal to him. He made pilgrimages to Sydney and Melbourne to consult the best physicians, but they gave him little hope. Death was approaching surely and swiftly. A gnawing pain, an inexpressible grief, stirred his heart as he thought of his child, whom he idolised. The reflection that she would be left alone in this wild spot, in this remote part of the world, without a relative, with scarcely a friend, appalled him. Yet what could he do?

      He had neither sought nor made friends, he and his wife and child had been sufficient for each other, and when his wife died he and Annette sighed for no other companionship. But had he sought friendships he would not have succeeded in making them in any but fitful fashion. His nearest neighbour was twenty miles away, and everybody in the colony was so intent upon "getting on" and making his fortune, that there was no time for social intercourse. In colonial cities there was at that time but little "society;" in the bush, none.

      About a hundred feet above the blue clear stream of the Pioneer stood the house in which Anthony Bidaud lived. The slabs with which it was built had been split from the gum and bloodwood trees growing in the forest which lay in the rear of the huts and buildings inhabited by the labourers, chiefly South Sea Islanders, who worked on the plantation. The roof was composed of shingles split from the same description of trees. The interior of the house was lined with rich, dark red cedar, which grew in the thick scrub on the opposite banks of the river. An avenue of bananas led from the house along the cliff to an arbour, in which oranges, custard apples, guavas, and other delicious fruits, ripened in unsurpassed perfection. The posts of the verandahs which surrounded three sides of the house were covered by gigantic passion fruit, except at one end, which was completely enclosed by grape vines and the yellow jessamine. Hammocks were slung in the verandahs, and the occupants could swing idly to and fro, shaded from the hot sun, and within reach of the fruit which grew in such wonderful abundance and luxuriance all around. A lovely home for husband, wife, and children; a dream which a poet soul only could properly appreciate, but for one simple human being, in whose days the flower of human affection was not blossoming-little better than a wilderness.

      It was of this sad prospect, which his state of health warned him lay before Annette, that Anthony Bidaud was speaking to Basil at the time of their introduction to the reader. They had been acquainted but a short time, but each bore for the other a genuine esteem. Some kindred qualities of independence, high-mindedness, and honesty of purpose had drawn them together from the hour they first met, and would have drawn them even closer in the future; but the shadows gathering over one life marred this fulfilment of a brighter promise. Barely two months had elapsed since Basil Whittingham, presenting himself to Anthony Bidaud, had asked for a shelter of his roof for a night. Annette was present when Basil appeared; by her side a faithful Scotch terrier, who guarded his young mistress with watchful care, and when needed, with ferocity. Basil stooped and patted the head of the dog, who did not snarl and show his teeth, as was his wont with strangers, but submitted to the familiarity with unusual amiability. The sensible creature went even farther than this; he rose, and rubbed his head against Basil's leg, courting by the action a continuance of the caressing.

      "Father," said Annette, "no stranger has ever done that with Bruno before."

      "Bruno and I are old friends," said Basil, with a pleasant smile. Annette thought that she had never seen such beautiful teeth.

      "Oh, Bruno," she cried reproachfully, "and you never told me! Come here directly, sir!" Bruno approached her, wagging his tail. "Really old friends?" she asked turning to Basil.

      "No, not really," he replied. "What I mean is, I love dogs, and dogs love me."

      "A good testimonial," remarked Anthony Bidaud, gazing with interest upon this poorly attired gentleman.

      "I have found it so," responded Basil, "for dog and man."

      He held out his hand to Annette, who not only took it, but retained it. This went far to complete the conquest of Anthony Bidaud. With the ordinary tramp he was very familiar, but here was a man of another breed. No hang-dog looks, no slouching, no lowering of the brows, no prison-mark about him. An upright gentleman, who looked the man he was asking a favour from square in the face.

      "Have you travelled far?" asked Anthony Bidaud.

      "About twenty miles I should say. Rather too hot a day for so long a walk."

      "You must be tired," said Anthony Bidaud. "You are heartily welcome here."

      "I thank you," said Basil.

      That this young man had so swiftly won favour with his child and her four-footed protector was a sufficient recommendation to Bidaud, but, independent of that, he was rejoiced to meet with a gentleman from whom manners and polish of good society had not been rubbed off by familiarity with the rougher aspects of life in the new world. Basil was a man whom no experience could harden; the inner grain of his nature was refined and sweet. The hardships he had already met with in the colony had not embittered him in the least. He grumbled at nothing, took all things easily, and showed a smiling face to the world. When he presented himself to Anthony Bidaud he was really at his wits' end, but though he had not tasted food that day he was not discouraged or disheartened. A clean conscience is a wonderful sustainer. "I am like a cat," thought Basil, as he trudged blithely through the bush, "I am bound to fall on my feet". And fall on his feet he did that summer afternoon, which was to be the prelude of many happier days; for before the night was over he told his host sufficient of his antecedents to satisfy Bidaud that his hospitality was not likely to be misplaced. Upon his persuasion his guest remained for a week, then for another week, and so on till the present time. Bidaud was diffident in asking Basil to enter his service, and Basil, though he had come to the plantation with a vague idea of seeking employment, did not entertain it after his first introduction to Bidaud and his daughter. The terms upon which they had met and upon which he was received forbade his asking for employment. It was gentleman and gentleman, not master and servant. But at length Bidaud-who had learned sufficient to be aware that Basil's purse was empty, and that he had no friends in the colony-delicately pressed his guest upon the subject, and, as timidly as though he was asking a favour instead of being anxious to bestow one, hinted at some business connection between them. Basil, from scruples with which we are familiar but which he did not explain to his host, would not entertain the idea, but firmly and courteously set it aside.

      "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