“A big black.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Linton nodded. “Anderson would motor out to Billabong, I expect, and Mrs. Brown would have the fresh horses ready. They should not be very long, with ordinary luck. Billy left about twelve, did he? By Jove, Norah must have made great time! It was after half-past ten when she left me.”
“She and the pony looked as if they’d done enough.”
“And she came back! I hadn’t realised it all in the minute of seeing her,” her father said, staring at Stephenson. “Norah, dear, are you quite knocked up?” He turned to speak, but broke off sharply. Norah was gone.
Mr. Linton turned on his heel without a word, and hurried out of the tent, with Stephenson at his side. Just for a moment the Hermit was forgotten in the sudden pang of anxiety that gripped them both. In the open they glanced round quickly, and a sharp exclamation of dismay broke from the father.
Norah was lying in a crumpled heap under a tree. There was something terribly helpless in the little, quiet figure, face downwards, on the grass.
Just for a moment, as he fell on his knees beside her, David Linton lost his self-control. He called her piteously, catching the limp body to him. Dick Stephenson’s hand fell on his shoulder.
“She’s only fainted,” he said huskily. “Over-tired, that’s all. Put her down, sir, please”—and Mr. Linton, still trembling, laid the little girl on the grass, and loosened her collar, while the other forced a few drops from his flask between the pale lips.
Gradually Norah’s eyes flickered and opened, and colour crept into her cheeks.
“Daddy!” she whispered.