“Darkie is getting disgracefully lazy,” she said. “He’s not doing a bit of the work. Nigger’s worth two of him.” The injured Darkie shot forward with a bound, and Mrs. Brown grabbed the side of the buggy hastily, and in her fears at the pace for the ensuing five minutes forgot her too inconvenient cross-examination.
Norah settled back into silence, her forehead puckered with a frown. She had never in her careless little life been confronted by such a problem as the one that now held her thoughts. That the startling similarity between her new-made friend and the description of the murderer should fasten upon her mind, was unavoidable. She struggled against the idea as disloyal, but finally decided to think it out calmly.
The descriptions tallied. So much was certain. The verbal likeness of one man was an exact word painting of the other, so far as it went, “though,” as poor Norah reflected, “you can’t always tell a person just by hearing what he’s like.” Then there was no denying that the conduct of the Hermit would excite suspicion. He was camping alone in the deepest recesses of a lonely tract of scrub; he had been there some weeks, and she had had plenty of proof that he was taken aback at being discovered and wished earnestly that no future prowlers might find their way to his retreat. She recalled his shrinking from the boys, and his hasty refusal to go to the homestead. He had said in so many words that he desired nothing so much as to be left alone—any one would have gathered that he feared discovery. They had all been conscious of the mystery about him. Her thoughts flew back to the half-laughing conversation between Harry and Wally, when they had actually speculated as to why he was hiding. Putting the case fairly and squarely, Norah had to admit that it looked black against the Hermit.
Against it, what had she? No proof; only a remembrance of two honest eyes looking sadly at her; of a face that had irresistibly drawn her confidence and friendship; of a voice whose tones had seemed to echo sincerity and kindness. It was absolutely beyond Norah’s power to believe that the hand that had held hers so gently could have been the one to strike to death an unsuspecting mate. Her whole nature revolted against the thought that her friend could be so base.
“He was in trouble,” Norah said, over and over again, in her uneasy mind; “he was unhappy. But I know he wasn’t wicked. Why, Bobs made friends with him!”
The thought put fresh confidence in her mind; Bobs always knew “a good sort.”
“I won’t say anything,” she decided at last, as they wheeled round the corner of the homestead. “If they knew there was a tall old man there, they’d go and hunt him out, and annoy him horribly. I know he’s all right. I’ll hold my tongue about him altogether—even to Dad.”
The coach dropped Mr. Linton next day at the Cross Roads, where a little figure, clad in white linen, sat in the buggy, holding the brown ponies, while the dusky Billy was an attendant sprite on his piebald mare.
“Well, my little girl, it’s good to see you again,” Mr. Linton said, putting his Gladstone bag into the buggy and receiving undismayed a small avalanche of little daughter upon his neck. “Steady, dear—mind the ponies.” He jumped in, and put his arm round her. “Everything well?”
“Yes, all right, Daddy. I’m so glad to have you back!”