r voice failed her.

"Don't worry to talk," he said gently. "You're done up."

"No--" She steadied her voice. "I must tell you. It's--it's--your
father!"

Dick Stephenson's face suddenly darkened.

"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "You're making a mistake; my
father is dead."

"He's not," said Norah, "He's my dear Hermit, and he's out there with
typhoid, or some beastly thing. We found him--and Dad knows him quite
well. It's really him. He never got drowned."

"Do you know what you're saying?" The man's face was white.

But Norah's self-command was at an end. She buried her face in Brownie's
kind bosom, and burst into a passion of crying.

The old woman rocked her to and fro gently until the sobs grew fainter,
and Norah, shame-faced, began to feel for her handkerchief. Then Mrs.
Brown put her into the big cushioned rocking-chair.

"Now, you must be brave and tell us, dearie," she said gently. "This is
pretty wonderful for Mr. Stephenson."

So Norah, with many catchings of the breath, told them all about the
Hermit, and of her father's recognition of him, saying only nothing of
her long and lonely ride. Before she had finished Billy was on the road
to Cunjee, flying for the doctor. Dick Stephenson, white-faced, broke in
on the story.

"How can I get out there?" he asked shortly.

"I'll take you," Norah said.

"You!--that's out of the question."

"No, it isn't. I'm not tired," said Norah, quite unconscious of saying
anything but the truth. "I knew I'd have to, anyhow, because only Billy
and I know the way to the Hermit's camp, and he has to fetch the doctor.
You tell Wright to get Banker for you, and put my saddle on Jim's
pony--and to look well after Bobs. Hurry, while Brownie gets the other
things!"

Dick Stephenson made no further protests, his brain awhirl as he raced
to the stables. Brownie protested certainly, but did her small maid's
bidding the while. But it was a very troubled old face that looked long
after the man and the little girl, as they started on the long ride back
to the camp.

Mile after mile they swung across the grey plain.

Norah did not try to talk. She disdained the idea that she was tired,
but a vague feeling told her that she must save all her energies to
guide the way back to the camp hidden in the scrub, where the Hermit lay
raving, and her father sat beside the lonely bed.

Neither was her companion talkative. He stared ahead, as if trying to
pierce with his eyes