in-wrung face on the rude bunk. If only
they were in time!

Mr. Linton, sitting on the log and lazily watching his idle float,
started at the voice that called to him from the bank; and at sight of
the little girl be leaped to his feet and ran towards her.

"Norah! What is it?"

She told him, clinging to him and sobbing; tugging at him all the time
to make him come quickly. A strange enough tale it seemed to Mr.
Linton--of hermits and hidden camps, and the Winfield murderer, and
someone who needed help,--but there was that in Norah's face and in her
unfamiliar emotion that made him hurry through the scrub beside her,
although he did not understand what he was to find, and was only
conscious of immense relief to know that she herself was safe, after the
moment of terror that her first cry had given him. Norah steadied
herself with a great effort, as they came to the silent camp.

"He's there," she said, pointing.

Mr. Linton understood something then, and he went forward quickly. The
Hermit was still unconscious. His hollow eyes met them blankly as they
entered the tent.

"Oh, he's ill, Daddy! Will he die?"

But David Linton did not answer. He was staring at the unconscious face
before him, and his own was strangely white. As Norah looked at him,
struck with a sudden wonder, her father fell on his knees and caught the
sick man's hand.

"Jim!" he said, and a sob choked his voice. "Old chum--Jim!"

CHAPTER XV. FOR FRIENDSHIP

"Daddy!"

At the quivering voice her father lifted his head and Norah saw that his
eyes were wet.

"It's my dear old friend Stephenson," he said brokenly. "I told you
about him. We thought he was dead--there was the body; I don't
understand, but this is he, and he's alive, thank God!"

The Hermit stirred and begged again for water, and Mr. Linton held him
while he drank. His face grew anxious as he felt the scorching heat of
the old man's body.

"He's so thirsty," Norah said tremulously, "goodness knows when he'd had
a drink. His poor lips were all black and cracked when I found him."

"Had he no water near him?" asked her father, quickly. "You got this?"

"Yes, from the creek," Norah nodded. "I'll get some more, Daddy; the
billy's nearly empty."

When Norah returned, laden with two cans, her father met her with a very
grave face.

"That's my girl," he said, taking the water from her. "Norah, I'm afraid
he's very ill. It looks uncommonly like typhoid."

"Will he--will