Page 179 - A Little Bush Maid

who could give it. Only the way seemed long as she raced through the
trees, seeing always that haggard, pain-wrung face on the rude bunk. Tf only

they were in time!

Mr. Linton, sitting on the log and lazily watching his idle float, started at
the voice that called to him from the bank; and at sight of the little girl be
leaped to his feet and ran towards her.

"Norah! What is it?"

She told him, clinging to him and sobbing; tugging at him all the time to
make him come quickly. A strange enough tale it seemed to Mr. Linton--of

hermits and hidden camps, and the Winfield murderer, and someone who
needed help,--but there was that in Norah’s face and in her unfamiliar

emotion that made him hurry through the scrub beside her, although he did
not understand what he was to find, and was only conscious of immense
relief to know that she herself was safe, after the moment of terror that her

first cry had given him. Norah steadied herself with a great effort, as they
came to the silent camp.

"He’s there," she said, pointing.

Mr. Linton understood something then, and he went forward quickly. The
Hermit was still unconscious. His hollow eyes met them blankly as they

entered the tent.

"Oh, he’s ill, Daddy! Will he die?"

But David Linton did not answer. He was staring at the unconscious face

before him, and his own was strangely white. As Norah looked at him,
struck with a sudden wonder, her father fell on his knees and caught the
sick man’s hand.

"Jim!" he said, and a sob choked his voice. "Old chum--Jim!"