“Will he—will he die, Daddy?”
“I can’t tell, dear. What’s bothering me is how to get help for him. He wants a doctor immediately—wants a dozen things I haven’t got here. I wish that blessed black boy hadn’t gone! I don’t quite know what to do—I can’t leave you here while I get help—he’s half delirious now.”
“You must let me go,” said Norah quietly. “I can—easily.”
“You!” said her father, looking down at the steady face. “That won’t do, dear—not across fifteen miles of lonely country. I—” The Hermit cried out suddenly, and tried to rise, and Mr. Linton had to hold him down gently, but the struggle was a painful one, and when it was over the strong man’s brow was wet. “Poor old chap!” he muttered brokenly.
Norah caught his arm.
“You see, I must go, Daddy,” she said. “There’s no one else—and he’ll die! Truly I can, Daddy—quite well. Bobs’ll look after me.”
“Can you?” he said, looking down at her. “You’re sure you know the track?”
“Course I can,” said his daughter scornfully.
“I don’t see anything for it,” Mr. Linton said, an anxious frown knitting his brow. “His life hangs on getting help, and there’s no other way, I’ll have to risk you, my little girl.”
“There’s no risk,” said Norah. “Don’t you worry, Daddy, dear. Just tell me what you want.”