“No, it isn’t. I’m not tired,” said Norah, quite unconscious of saying anything but the truth. “I knew I’d have to, anyhow, because only Billy and I know the way to the Hermit’s camp, and he has to fetch the doctor. You tell Wright to get Banker for you, and put my saddle on Jim’s pony—and to look well after Bobs. Hurry, while Brownie gets the other things!”
Dick Stephenson made no further protests, his brain awhirl as he raced to the stables. Brownie protested certainly, but did her small maid’s bidding the while. But it was a very troubled old face that looked long after the man and the little girl, as they started on the long ride back to the camp.
Mile after mile they swung across the grey plain.
Norah did not try to talk. She disdained the idea that she was tired, but a vague feeling told her that she must save all her energies to guide the way back to the camp hidden in the scrub, where the Hermit lay raving, and her father sat beside the lonely bed.
Neither was her companion talkative. He stared ahead, as if trying to pierce with his eyes the line of timber that blurred across the landscape. Norah was glad he did not bother her with questions. She had told him all she knew, and now he was content to wait.
“It must be hard on him, all the same,” thought Norah, looking at the set young face, and sparing an instant to approve of the easy seat in the saddle displayed by her new “governess.” To believe that your father was dead all these years, and then suddenly to find him alive—but how far apart in every way! “Why, you hardly know,” mused Norah, “whether you’ll like him—whether he’ll be glad to see you! Not that anyone could fail to like the Hermit—anyone with sense, that is!”
Mile after mile! The plain slipped away beneath the even beat of the steadily cantering hoofs. The creek, forded slowly, sank into the distance behind them; before, the line of timber grew darker and more definite. Jim’s pony was not far inferior to Bobs in pace and easiness, and his swinging canter required no effort to sit, but a great weariness began to steal over his rider. Dick Stephenson, glancing at her frequently, saw the pallor creeping upon the brave little face.
He pulled up.
“We’ll go steady for a while,” he said. “No good knocking you up altogether.”
Norah checked her pony unwillingly.