“Don’t talk, my darling,” her father said. “Lie still.”
“I’m all right now,” Norah said presently. “I’m so sorry I frightened you, Daddy—I couldn’t help it.”
“You should have kept still, dear,” said her father. “Why did you go out?”
“I felt rummy,” said his daughter inelegantly; “a queer, whirly-go-round feeling. I guessed I must be going to tumble over. It didn’t seem any good making a duffer of myself when you were busy with the Hermit, so I cut out.”
Dick Stephenson turned sharply and, without a word, strode back into the tent.
Norah turned with a sudden movement to her father, clinging to the rough serge of his coat. Something like a tear fell on her upturned face as the strong arms enfolded her.
“Why—Daddy—dear old Dad!” she whispered.
It was nearly twilight when Dr. Anderson and black Billy rode into the clearing, to the joy of the anxious watchers.
The doctor did not waste any words. He slipped off his horse and entered the tent. Presently Dick Stephenson came out and sat down beside Norah to await the verdict.
“I can’t do any good there,” he said, “and there’s no room.”