But it was a tedious journey. Dr. Anderson sat beside his patient, watching the feeble action of the heart and the flickering pulse, plying him with stimulants and nourishment, occasionally calling a halt for a few minutes’ complete rest. Close to the wheel Dick Stephenson rode, his eyes scarcely leaving his father’s face. On the other side, Norah and her father rode in silent, miserable anxiety, fretting at their utter helplessness. Dr. Anderson glanced sharply now and then at the little girl’s face.
“This isn’t good for her,” he said at length quietly to Mr. Linton. “She’s had too much already. Take her home.” He raised his voice. “You’d better go on,” he said; “let Mrs. Brown know just what is coming; she’ll need you to help her prepare the patient’s room, Norah. You, too, Stephenson.”
“I won’t leave him, thanks,” he said. “I’d rather not—he might become conscious.”
“No chance of that,” the doctor said, “best not, too, until we have him safely in bed. However, stay if you like—perhaps it’s as well. I think, Linton, you’d better send a wire to Melbourne for a trained nurse.”
“And one to mother,” Dick said quickly.
“That’s gone already,” Mr. Linton said. “I sent George back with it last night when he brought the mare out.” He smiled in answer to Dick’s grateful look. “Well, come on, Norah.”
The remembrance of that helpless form in the bottom of the wagon haunted Norah’s memory all through the remainder of the ride home. She was thoroughly tired now—excitement that had kept her up the day before had prevented her from sleeping, and she scarcely could keep upright in the saddle. However, she set her teeth to show no sign of weakness that should alarm her father, and endeavoured to have a smile for him whenever his anxious gaze swept her white face.
The relief of seeing the red roof of home! That last mile was the longest of all—and when at length they were at the gate, and she had climbed stiffly off her pony, she could only lean against his shoulder and shake from head to foot. Mr. Linton picked her up bodily and carried her, feebly protesting, into Mrs. Brown.
“Only knocked up,” he said, in answer to the old woman’s terrified exclamation. “Bed is all she needs—and hot soup, if you’ve got it. Norah, dear”—as she begged to be allowed to remain and help—“you can do nothing just now, except get yourself all right. Do as I tell you, girlie;” and in an astonishingly short space of time Norah found herself tucked up in bed in her darkened room, with Daddy’s hand fast in hers, and a comforting feeling of everything fading away to darkness and sleep.
It was twilight when she opened her eyes again, and Brownie sat knitting by her side.