“Not gladder than I am to get back, my little lass,” said her father. “Good-day, Billy. Let ’em go, Norah.”
“Did you see Jim?” asked Norah, as the ponies bounded forward.
“No—missed him. I had only an hour in town, and went out to the school, to find Master Jim had gone down the river—rowing practice. I was sorry to miss him; but it wasn’t worth waiting another day in town.”
“Jim would be sorry,” said Norah thoughtfully. She herself was rather glad: had Jim seen his father, most probably he would have mentioned the Hermit. Now she had only his letters to fear, and as Jim’s letters were of the briefest nature and very far apart, it was not an acute danger.
“Yes, I suppose he would,” Mr. Linton replied. “I regretted not having sent a telegram to say I was going to the school—it slipped my memory. I had rather a rush, you know. I suppose you’ve been pretty dull, my girlie?”
“Oh it was horrid after the boys went,” Norah said. “I didn’t know what to do with myself, and the house was terribly quiet. It was hard luck that you had to go away too.”
“Yes, I was very sorry it happened so,” her father said; “had we been alone together I’d have taken you with me, but we’ll have the trip some other time. Did you have a good day’s fishing on Saturday?”
“Yes,” said Norah, flushing a little guiltily—the natural impulse to tell all about their friend the Hermit was so strong. “We had a lovely day, and caught ever so many fish—didn’t get home till ever so late. The only bad part was finding you away when we got back.”
“Well, I’m glad you had good luck, at any rate,” Mr. Linton said. “So Anglers’ Bend is keeping up its reputation, eh? We’ll have to go out there, I think, Norah; what do you say about it? Would you and Billy like a three days’ jaunt on fishing bent?”
“Oh, it would be glorious, Daddy! Camping out?”