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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
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