ck, nervous
fingers..

The Hermit stirred, and gasped for water. He drank readily enough from
the glass Mr. Linton held to his lips, while his son supported him with
strong young arms. There was not much they could do.

"Anderson should be here before long," Mr. Linton said. "What time did
Billy leave?"

"A little after twelve."

"What did he ride?"

"A big black."

"That's right," Mr. Linton nodded. "Anderson would motor out to
Billabong, I expect, and Mrs. Brown would have the fresh horses ready.
They should not be very long, with ordinary luck. Billy left about
twelve, did he? By Jove, Norah must have made great time! It was after
half-past ten when she left me."

"She and the pony looked as if they'd done enough."

"And she came back! I hadn't realised it all in the minute of seeing
her," her father said, staring at Stephenson. "Norah, dear, are you
quite knocked up?" He turned to speak, but broke off sharply. Norah was
gone.

Mr. Linton turned on his heel without a word, and hurried out of the
tent, with Stephenson at his side. Just for a moment the Hermit was
forgotten in the sudden pang of anxiety that gripped them both. In the
open they glanced round quickly, and a sharp exclamation of dismay broke
from the father.

Norah was lying in a crumpled heap under a tree. There was something
terribly helpless in the little, quiet figure, face downwards, on the
grass.

Just for a moment, as he fell on his knees beside her, David Linton lost
his self-control. He called her piteously, catching the limp body to
him. Dick Stephenson's hand fell on his shoulder.

"She's only fainted," he said huskily. "Over-tired, that's all. Put her
down, sir, please"--and Mr. Linton, still trembling, laid the little
girl on the grass, and loosened her collar, while the other forced a few
drops from his flask between the pale lips.

Gradually Norah's eyes flickered and opened, and colour crept into her
cheeks.

"Daddy!" she whispered.

"Don't talk, my darling," her father said. "Lie still."

"I'm all right now," Norah said presently. "I'm so sorry I frightened
you, Daddy--I couldn't help it."

"You should have kept still, dear," said her father. "Why did you go
out?"

"I felt rummy," said his daughter inelegantly; "a queer, whirly-go-round
feeling. I guessed I must be going to tumble over. It didn't seem any
good making a duffer of myself when you were busy with the Hermit, so I
cut out."

Dick Stephenson turned