Then, just as they were becoming sick with anxiety and the long watching, came the far-off hum of a hurrying car, and presently little Dr. Anderson swung round the corner, pulled up with a sudden jar that would ordinarily have caused him extreme wrath, and came through his garden at a run. He cast a swift professional eye over Wally.
“Good children!” he said, approvingly. “Come along to the surgery, my boy; you, too, Jim. You girls go and let the wife take care of you.”
But Norah could not talk to any one just then. The long strain had been too heavy a burden. She watched the three figures vanish within the surgery door, the doctor’s hand on Wally’s shoulder, and then turned and went blindly down a winding path. It ended in a fence. She put her head down upon it, swallowing hard, dry sobs. Jean put an arm round her, silent. There was not anything to say.
Within the surgery Wally had faced the little doctor.
“I say, sir,” he said, moistening dry lips, “you won’t let me make a fool of myself if things get a bit beyond me, will you?”
“I will not,” said the doctor, sturdily. “But they won’t—don’t talk nonsense!” He was unwrapping the hand swiftly. “Catch this bottle, Jim.”
Very long after—so it seemed to Norah and Jean—a quick step came down the path behind them.
“Your nice brown lad is all right,” said Mrs. Anderson, happily. “Jack says there’s no risk now. Everything was done in time. We’ll keep him here to-night, just to watch him, and Jim will stay with him. Mr. Linton is waiting for you two lassies; and you can come back to-morrow, and take Wally home for Christmas. Unless you like to leave him with me for a month or so? I like that boy!”
“So does Billabong,” said David Linton’s voice, not quite steady. “We can’t spare him to any one, can we, Norah?”
Norah shook her head. She clung to her father’s hand as they went back to the house, where Jim waited on the verandah, his face still grave.