CHAPTER XV.
FOR FRIENDSHIP
“Daddy!”
At the quivering voice her father lifted his head and Norah saw that his eyes were wet.
“It’s my dear old friend Stephenson,” he said brokenly. “I told you about him. We thought he was dead—there was the body; I don’t understand, but this is he, and he’s alive, thank God!”
The Hermit stirred and begged again for water, and Mr. Linton held him while he drank. His face grew anxious as he felt the scorching heat of the old man’s body.
“He’s so thirsty,” Norah said tremulously, “goodness knows when he’d had a drink. His poor lips were all black and cracked when I found him.”
“Had he no water near him?” asked her father, quickly. “You got this?”
“Yes, from the creek,” Norah nodded. “I’ll get some more, Daddy; the billy’s nearly empty.”
When Norah returned, laden with two cans, her father met her with a very grave face.
“That’s my girl,” he said, taking the water from her. “Norah, I’m afraid he’s very ill. It looks uncommonly like typhoid.”