“No use trying to come between those two,” he said.
“Not a bit,” said the Hermit with great cheerfulness. He smiled at Norah. “You brought me back to life—twice.”
“When I think—but for Norah,” Mrs. Stephenson murmured brokenly, “no one would have known you were dying in that dreadful tent.”
“Yes,” said the Hermit, “but I didn’t know anything about it. My best memory is of my little friend who brought me good news when I was wishing with all my soul that I’d died in the tent!”
“Don’t, Jim!” said Mr. Linton.
“Well, between one and another there’s a fair chance of spoiling my pupil,” laughed Dick, stretching himself. “I’ll have to be doubly stern to counteract the evil influences, Norah. You can prepare for awful times. When next Monday comes, Mr. Linton—may it be soon!—you can say good-bye to your pickle of a daughter. She will come out from my mill ground into the most approved type of young lady—accomplishments, prunes and prisms personified!”
Mr. Linton laughed.
“Will she?” he said, pulling Norah’s hair gently. “I wonder! Well, you can do your worst, Dick. Somehow, I fancy that under all the varnish I’ll find my little bush maid.”
The End