the
only danger. Bad characters were to be met with in the bush and the pony
was valuable enough to tempt a desperate man--such as the Winfield
murderer, who was roaming the district, nobody knew where. There was a
score of possible risks; to battle with them, a little maid of twelve,
strong only in the self-reliance bred of the bush. The father looked at
the ghastly face before him, and asked himself questions that
tortured--Was it right to have let the young life go to save the old
one that seemed just flickering out? He put his face in his hands and
groaned.

How long the hours were! He calculated feverishly the time it would take
the little messenger to reach home if all went well; then how long it
must be before a man could come out to him. At that thought he realised
for the first time the difficulty Norah had seen in silence--who should
come out to him? Black Billy must fetch the doctor and guide him to the
sick man; but no one else save Norah herself knew the track to the
little camp, hidden so cunningly in the scrub, at that rate it might be
many hours before he knew if his child were safe. Anxiety for the
remedies for his friend was swallowed up in the anguish of uncertainty
for Norah. It seemed to him that he must go to seek her--that he could
not wait! He started up, but, as if alarmed by his sudden movement, the
Hermit cried out and tried to rise, struggling feebly with the strong
hands that were quick to hold him back. When the struggle was over David
Linton sat down again. How could he leave him?

Then across his agony of uncertainty came a clear childish voice. The
tent flaps were parted and Norah stood in the entrance white and
trembling, but with a glad smile of welcome on her lips--behind her a
tall man, who trembled, too. David Linton did not see him. All the world
seemed whirling round him as he caught his child in his arms.

CHAPTER XVI. FIGHTING DEATH

"You!" Mr. Linton said.

He had put Norah gently into the rough chair, and turned to Dick
Stephenson, who was standing by his father, his lips twitching. They
gripped hands silently.

"You can recognise him?"

"I'd know him anywhere," the son said. "Poor old dad! You think--?"

"I don't know," the other said hastily. "Can't tell until Anderson
comes. But I fancy it's typhoid. You brought the things? Ah!" His eyes
brightened as they fell on the leather medicine-case Mrs. Brown had
sent, and in a moment he was unstrapping it with qui