Jim and Norah were the last to leave. They came back to the horses together, Tait at their heels, his head and tail down. Norah was stumbling blindly as she walked, and Jim's arm was round her. He put her up, and turned silently to unfasten his own bridle.
"Jim," she said, and stopped. "Jim, do you think we'll find him in—in time?"
Jim hesitated, trying to bring himself to say what he dared no longer think. Then he gave way suddenly.
"No," he said, hoarsely, "I don't; I don't believe we ever will!" He put his head down on the saddle and sobbed terribly—dry, hard sobs that came from the bottom of his big heart. And Norah had no word of comfort. She sat still on Sirdar, staring in front of her.
Presently Jim stood up and climbed into the saddle, and the impatient horses moved off quickly towards home, Tait jogging at their heels. Once Jim turned towards his sister, saying, "Are you quite knocked up, old girl?" Norah only shook her head—she did not know that she was tired. Neither spoke again.
It was perhaps a mile further on that Norah pulled up sharply, and whistled to Tait. The collie had slipped off into the undergrowth—she could hear him moving on dry sticks that crackled beneath him. He whined a little, but did not come.
"Don't wait," Jim said. "He'll catch us up in a minute."
"He always comes if I whistle," Norah answered, her brow puckering. "I don't understand. Wait a moment, Jim." She had slid off her pony and followed Tait almost before Jim realized that she was gone.
The dog was nosing along a big log, the ruff on his neck bristling. As Norah saw him he leaped upon it, and down on the other side. Then she heard him bark sharply, and flung herself over the log after him. He was licking something that lay in the shadows, almost invisible at first, until the dim light showed a white glimmer. It was instinct more than sight that told Norah it was her father's face.
"Daddy—oh, Dad!"