“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “You’re making a mistake; my father is dead.”
“He’s not,” said Norah, “He’s my dear Hermit, and he’s out there with typhoid, or some beastly thing. We found him—and Dad knows him quite well. It’s really him. He never got drowned.”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” The man’s face was white.
But Norah’s self-command was at an end. She buried her face in Brownie’s kind bosom, and burst into a passion of crying.
The old woman rocked her to and fro gently until the sobs grew fainter, and Norah, shame-faced, began to feel for her handkerchief. Then Mrs. Brown put her into the big cushioned rocking-chair.
“Now, you must be brave and tell us, dearie,” she said gently. “This is pretty wonderful for Mr. Stephenson.”
So Norah, with many catchings of the breath, told them all about the Hermit, and of her father’s recognition of him, saying only nothing of her long and lonely ride. Before she had finished Billy was on the road to Cunjee, flying for the doctor. Dick Stephenson, white-faced, broke in on the story.
“How can I get out there?” he asked shortly.
“I’ll take you,” Norah said.
“You!—that’s out of the question.”