Norah nodded. Just then there seemed nothing to say to this son whose father, so lately given back from the grave, seemed to be slipping away again without a word. She slid her hand into his and felt his fingers close warmly upon it.
“I can stand it,” he said brokenly, after a little, “if he can only know we—the world—knows he was never guilty—if I can only tell him that. I can’t bear him to die not knowing that.”
“He’d know it anyhow.”
The little voice was very low, but the lad heard it.
“I—I guess he will,” he said, “and that’s better. But I would like to make it up to him a bit—while he’s here.”
Then they were silent. The shadows deepened across the clearing. Long since the sun had disappeared behind the rim of encircling trees.
The tent flaps parted and the doctor and Mr. Linton came out. Dick rose and faced them. He could not utter the question that trembled on his lips.
The doctor nodded cheerily.
“Well, Norah?” he said. “Yes; I think we’ll pull the patient through this time, Mr. Stephenson. It’ll be a fight, for he’s old and weakened by exposure and lack of proper food, but I think we’ll do it.” He talked on hopefully, appearing not to see the question the son could not altogether hide. “Take him home? Yes, we’ll get him home to-morrow, I think. We can’t nurse him out here. The express-wagon’s following with all sorts of comforting things. Trust your old Mrs. Brown for that, Norah. Most capable woman! Mattresses, air pillows, nourishment—she’d thought of everything, and the wagon was all ready to start when I got to Billabong. By the way, Billy was to go back to show Wright the way. Where are you, Billy? Why haven’t you gone?”
“Plenty!” said Billy hastily, as he disappeared.