Page 177 - A Little Bush Maid

sharp lookout for the tall old form that might appear at any
moment--hoping that her father might not grow tired of fishing and coo-ee

for her to return.

But there was silence in the bush, and no sign of the Hermit could be seen.
The thought came to Norah that he might have struck camp, and gone
farther back into the wild country, away from the men he dreaded. But she

put the idea from her. Somehow she felt that he was there.

She came to the clump of dogwood that hid the old log along which lay the
last part of the track to the Hermit’s camp and, climbing up, ran along it
lightly. There were no recent footprints upon it. Suddenly the silence of the

surroundings fell heavily on her heart.

Reaching the end of the log that gave access to the clearing, she took a
hasty glance round. The ashes of the fire were long dead. No one was there.

Norah’s heart thumped heavily. For a moment she fought with the longing
to run back--back from this strange, silent place--back to Daddy. Then she

gulped down something in her throat, and giving herself an impatient
shake, she went resolutely across the clearing to the tent and peeped in.

The interior of the tent was as neat and homelike as when Norah had seen it
first. The quaint bits of furniture stood in their places, and the skins lay on

the floor. But Norah saw nothing but her friend’s face.

The Hermit was lying on his bunk-- a splendid old figure in his dress of soft

furry skins, but with a certain helplessness about him that brought Norah’s
heart into her mouth. As the flap of the tent lifted he turned his head with

difficulty, and looked at the little girl with weary, burning eyes that held no
light of recognition. His face was ghastly white beneath the sunburnt skin,
which was drawn like parchment over the cheekbones. A low moan came

from his dry lips.

"Water!"