's made all day, and in the motor he didn't say
as much--sat like an ebony statue, with his eyes bulging in unholy
terror. I hear you've been flying all over the country, Norah. What do
you mean by looking so white?"

The tale of Norah's iniquities was unfolded to him, and the doctor felt
her pulse in a friendly way.

"You'll have to go to bed soon," he said. "Can't have you knocking
yourself up, you know; and we've got to make an early start to-morrow to
avoid the worst heat of the day for the patient. Also, you will take a
small tabloid to make you 'buck up,' if you know what that means,
Norah!" Norah grinned. "Ah, well, Mr. Stephenson here will make you
forget all that undesirable knowledge before long--lost in a maze of
Euclid, and Latin, and Greek, and trigonometry, and things!"

"I say!" gasped Norah.

"Well, you may," grinned the doctor. "I foresee lively times for you and
your tutor in the paths of learning, young lady. First of all, however,
you'll have to be under-nurse to our friend the patient, with Mrs. Brown
as head. And that reminds me--someone must sit up to-night."

"That's my privilege," said Dick Stephenson quickly. And all that night,
after the camp had quieted to sleep, the son sat beside his newly-found
father, watching in the silver moonlight every change that flitted
across the wan old face. The Hermit had not yet recovered consciousness,
but under the doctor's remedies he had lost the terrible restlessness of
delirium and lay for the most part calmly. In heart, as he watched him,
Dick was but a little boy again, loving above all the world the tall
"Daddy" who was his hero--longing with all the little boy's devotion and
all the strength of his manhood to make up to him for the years he had
suffered alone.

But the calm face on the bed never showed sign of recognition. Once or
twice the Hermit muttered, and his boy's name was on his lips. The pulse
fluttered feebly. The great river flowed very close about his feet.

CHAPTER XVII. THE END OF THE STRUGGLE

The long slow journey to Billabong homestead was accomplished.

The Hermit had never regained consciousness throughout the weary hours
during which every jolt of the express-wagon over the rough tracks had
sent a throb to the hearts of the watchers. All unconscious he had lain
while they lifted him from the bunk where he had slept for so many
lonely nights. The men packed his few personal belongings quickly.
Norah, remembering a