“Oh, don’t you think we ought to hurry?” she said. “Dad’s waiting for those medicines you’ve got, you know.”
“Yes, I know. But I don’t think we’ll gain much by overdoing it.”
“If you’re thinking about me,” Norah said impatiently, “you needn’t. I’m as right as rain. You must think I’m pretty soft! Do come on!”
He looked at her steadily. Dark shadows of weariness lay under the brave eyes that met his.
“Why, no,” he said. “Fact is, I’m a bit of a new chum myself where riding’s concerned—you mustn’t be too ashamed of me. I think we’d better walk for a while. And you take this.”
He poured something from his flask into its little silver cup and handed it to Norah. Their eyes met, and she read his meaning through the kindness of the words that cloaked what he felt. Above her weariness a sense of comfort stole over Norah. She knew in that look that henceforth they were friends.
She gulped down the drink, which was hateful, but presently sent a feeling of renewed strength through her tired limbs. They rode on in silence for some time, the horses brushing through the long soft grass. Dick Stephenson pulled hard at his pipe.
“Did—did my father know you this morning?” he asked suddenly.
Norah shook her head mournfully.
“He didn’t know anyone,” she answered, “only asked for water and said things I couldn’t understand. Then when Dad came he knew him at once, but the Hermit didn’t seem even to know that Dad was there.”