“You!” Mr. Linton said.  
He had put Norah gently into the rough chair, and turned to Dick Stephenson, who was standing¹ by his father, his lips twitching². 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 quick, nervous fingers..
 
The Hermit³ stirred, and gasped⁴ 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 pony⁵ 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 pang⁶ of anxiety that gripped them both. In the open they glanced round quickly, and a sharp exclamation⁷ of dismay broke from the father.
 
Norah was lying in a crumpled⁸ heap under a tree. There was something terribly helpless in the little, quiet figure, face downwards⁹, 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, catching¹⁰ 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 flask¹¹ between the pale lips.
 
Gradually Norah's eyes flickered¹² 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 sharply and, without a word, strode back into the tent.
 
Norah turned with a sudden movement to her father, clinging to the rough serge of his coat. Something like a tear fell on her upturned face as the strong arms enfolded her.
 
“Why—Daddy—dear old Dad!” she whispered.
 
It was nearly twilight¹³ when Dr. Anderson and black Billy rode into the clearing, to the joy of the anxious watchers.
 
The doctor did not waste any words. He slipped off his horse and entered the tent. Presently Dick Stephenson came out and sat down beside Norah to await the verdict.
 
“I can't do any good there,&rdquo............