“Run in, you and Jean, and tell Brownie you’re all right,” Mr. Linton said to Norah, as they pulled up. “We’ll see to the horses.”
In the harness room, while Wally took off bridles outside, Jim’s eyes met his father’s. Both had been thinking.
“I’m sorry we made you anxious,” said the boy, stiffly.
“You made me very anxious,” said David Linton. “Still——” He hesitated, memories of his own early manhood coming back to him as the big fellow faced him. “Perhaps I forget that you’re not a child any longer,” he said, with an effort. “If I hurt you, Jim, I’m——”
“Don’t!” Jim’s hand went out quickly. “I deserved a jolly sight more than I got. But I’m sorry, Dad.” They shook hands on it, gravely.
“Bring in those bridles, young Wally, and be quick!” sang out Mr. Linton—and Wally appeared, his face comically relieved at the tone. They walked over to the house—a laugh from Jim at some futile remark of his chum’s coming to Norah’s ears as they neared the verandah, and greatly relieving that distressed damsel, to whom it had appeared that the skies had fallen.
Later, when supper had been discussed cheerfully, and the household had scattered, David Linton smoked a last pipe on the balcony, thinking.
A slender figure in blue pyjamas came softly to him.
“Dad—I’m sorry!” said Norah.
“Right, mate!” said her father. He saw the quick lift of her head, but she hesitated.