“Daddy!”  
At the quivering voice her father lifted his head and Norah saw that his eyes were wet.
 
“It's my dear old friend Stephenson,” he said brokenly. “I told you about him. We thought he was dead—there was the body; I don't understand, but this is he, and he's alive, thank God!”
 
The Hermit¹ stirred and begged again for water, and Mr. Linton held him while he drank. His face grew anxious as he felt the scorching² heat of the old man's body.
 
“He's so thirsty,” Norah said tremulously, “goodness knows when he'd had a drink. His poor lips were all black and cracked when I found him.”
 
“Had he no water near him?” asked her father, quickly. “You got this?”
 
“Yes, from the creek³,” Norah nodded. “I'll get some more, Daddy; the billy's nearly empty.”
 
When Norah returned, laden⁴ with two cans, her father met her with a very grave face.
 
“That's my girl,” he said, taking the water from her. “Norah, I'm afraid he's very ill. It looks uncommonly⁵ like typhoid.”
 
“Will he—will he die, Daddy?”
 
“I can't tell, dear. What's bothering me is how to get help for him. He wants a doctor immediately—wants a dozen things I haven't got here. I wish that blessed black boy hadn't gone! I don't quite know what to do—I can't leave you here while I get help—he's half delirious⁶ now.”
 
“You must let me go,” said Norah quietly. “I can—easily.”
 
“You!” said her father, looking down at the steady face. “That won't do, dear—not across fifteen miles of lonely country. I—” The Hermit cried out suddenly, and tried to rise, and Mr. Linton had to hold him down gently, but the struggle was a painful one, and when it was over the strong man's brow was wet. “Poor old chap!” he muttered brokenly.
 
Norah caught his arm.
 
“You see, I must go, Daddy,” she said. “There's no one else—and he'll die! Truly I can, Daddy—quite well. Bobs'll look after me.”
 
“Can you?” he said, looking down at her. “You're sure you know the track?”
 
“Course I can,” said his daughter scornfully.
 
“I don't see anything for it,” Mr. Linton said, an anxious frown knitting his brow. “His life hangs on getting help, and there's no other way, I'll have to risk you, my little girl.”
 
“There's no risk,” said Norah. “Don't you worry, Daddy, dear. Just tell me what you want.”
 
Mr. Linton was writing hurriedly in his pocket-book.
 
“Send into Cunjee for Dr. Anderson as hard as a man can travel,” he said shortly. “Don't wait for him, however; get Mrs. Brown to pack these things from my medicine-chest, and let Billy get a fresh horse and bring them back to me, and he needn't be afraid of knocking his horse up. I'm afraid we're too late as it is. Can he find his way here?”
 
“He's been here.”
 
“That's all right, then. Tell Anderson I think it's typhoid, and if he thinks we can move him, let Wright follow the doctor out with the express-wagon—Mrs. Brown will know what to send to make it comfortable. Can you manage Bobs?”
 
“Yes—of course.”
 
Mr. Linton put his hand on her shoulder.
 
“I've got to let you go,” he said. “It's the only way. Remember, I won't have a minute's peace until I know you've got safely home.”
 
“I'll be all right, Daddy—true. And I'll hurry. Don't bother about me.”
 
“Bother!” he said. “My little wee mate.” He kissed her twice. “Now—hurry!”
 
Bobs, grazing peacefully under a big gum tree, was startled by a little figure, staggering beneath saddle and bridle⁷. In a minute Norah was on his back, and they were galloping⁸ across the plain towards home.
 
A young man sat on the cap of the stockyard fence at Billabong homestead, swinging his legs listlessly and wishing for something to do. He blessed the impulse that had brought him to the station before his time, and wondered if things were likely to be always as dull.
 
“Unless my small pupil stirs things up, I don't fancy this life much,” he said moodily⁹, in which he showed considerable impatience¹⁰ of judgment¹¹, being but a young man.
 
Across the long, grey plain a tiny cloud gathered, and the man watched it lazily. Gradually it grew larger, until it resolved itself into dust—and the dust into a horse and rider.
 
“Someone coming,” he said, with faint interest. “By Jove, it's a girl! She's racing¹², too. Wonder if anything's wrong?”
 
He slipped from the fence and went forward to open the gate, looking at the advancing pair. A big bay pony¹³ panting and dripping with sweat, but with “go” in him yet for a final sprint¹⁴; and on his back a little girl, flushed and excited, with tired, set lips. He expected her to stop at the gate, but she flashed by him with a glance and a brief “Thank you,” galloping up to the gate of the yard. Almost before the pony stopped she was out of the saddle and running up the path to the kitchen. The man saw Mrs. Brown come out, and heard her cry of surprise as she caught the child to her.
 
“Something's up,” said the stranger. He followed at a run.
 
In the kitchen Norah was clinging to Mrs. Brown, quivering with the effort not to cry.
 
“Someone ill in the bush?” said the astonished Brownie, patting her nurseling. “Yes, Billy's here, dearie—and all the horses are in. Where's the note? I'll see to it. Poor pet! Don't take on, lovey, there. See, here's your new governess, Mr. Stephenson!”
 
Norah straightened with a gasp¹⁵ of astonishment¹⁶.
 
“You!” she said.
 
“Me!” said Dick Stephenson ungrammatically, holding out his hand. “You're my pupil, aren't you? Is anything wrong?”
 
“There's a poor gentleman near to dyin' in the scrub,” volunteered Mrs. Brown, “an' Miss Norah's come all the way in for help. Fifteen mile, if it's a inch! I don't know ow' you did it, my blessed pet!”
 
“You don't mean to say you did!” said the new “governess” amazed. Small girls like this had not come his way. “By Jove, you're plucky¹⁷! I say, what's up?”
 
Norah was very pale.
 
“Are you really Mr. Stephenson?” she asked. “I... You'll be surprised.... He's...” Her 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 bosom¹⁸, and burst into a passion of crying.
 
The old woman rocked her to and fro gently until the sobs¹⁹ 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............