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 hint dropped by the hermit in other days, had instituted a search for buried papers, which resulted in the unearthing of a tin box containing various documents. she had insisted, too, that the rough furniture should go, and it was piled in the front of the wagon. another man had brought out the old pack mare for the baggage of the original fishing party, and the whole cavalcade moved off before the sun had got above the horizon.

but it was a tedious journey. dr. anderson sat beside his patient, watching the feeble action of the heart and the flickering pulse, plying him with stimulants and nourishment, occasionally calling a halt for a few minutes' complete rest. close to the wheel dick stephenson rode, his eyes scarcely leaving his father's face. on the other side, norah and her father rode in silent, miserable anxiety, fretting at their utter helplessness. dr. anderson glanced sharply now and then at the little girl's face.

“this isn't good for her,” he said at length quietly to mr. linton. “she's had too much already. take her home.” he raised his voice. “you'd better go on,” he said; “let mrs. brown know just what is coming; she'll need you to help her prepare the patient's room, norah. you, too, stephenson.”

“i won't leave him, thanks,” he said. “i'd rather not—he might become conscious.”

“no chance of that,” the doctor said, “best not, too, until we have him safely in bed. however, stay if you like—perhaps it's as well. i think, linton, you'd better send a wire to melbourne for a trained nurse.”

“and one to mother,” dick said quickly.

“that's gone already,” mr. linton said. “i sent george back with it last night when he brought the mare out.” he smiled in answer to dick's grateful look. “well, come on, norah.”

the remembrance of that helpless form in the bottom of the wagon haunted norah's memory all through the remainder of the ride home. she was thoroughly tired now—excitement that had kept her up the day before had prevented her from sleeping, and she scarcely could keep upright in the saddle. however, she set her teeth to show no sign of weakness that should alarm her father, and endeavoured to have a smile for him whenever his anxious gaze swept her white face.

the relief of seeing the red roof of home! that last mile was the longest of all—and when at length they were at the gate, and she had climbed stiffly off her pony, she could only lean against his shoulder and shake from head to foot. mr. linton picked her up bodily and carried her, feebly protesting, into mrs. brown.

“only knocked up,” he said, in answer to the old woman's terrified exclamation. “bed is all she needs—and hot soup, if you've got it. norah, dear”—as she begged to be allowed to remain and help—“you can do nothing just now, except get yourself all right. do as i tell you, girlie;” and in an astonishingly short space of time norah found herself tucked up in bed in her darkened room, with daddy's hand fast in hers, and a comforting feeling of everything fading away to darkness and sleep.

it was twilight when she opened her eyes again, and brownie sat knitting by her side.

“bless your dear heart,” she said fervently. “yes, the old gentleman's come, an' he's quite comfertable in bed—though he don't know no one yet. dr. anderson's gone to cunjee, but he's coming back in his steam engine to stay all night; an' your pa's having his dinner, which he needs it, poor man. an' he don't want you to get up, lovey, for there ain't nothin' you can do. i'll go and get you something to eat.”

but it was mr. linton who came presently, bearing a tray with dainty chicken and salad, and a glass of clear golden jelly. he sat by norah while she ate.

“we're pretty anxious, dear,” he told her, when she had finished, and was snugly lying down again, astonishingly glad of her soft bed. “you won't mind my not staying. i must be near old jim. i'll be glad when anderson's back. try to go to sleep quickly.” he bent to kiss her. “you don't know what a comfort your sleep has been to me, my girlie,” he said. “good-night!”

it was the third day of the struggle with death over the hermit's unconscious body, and again twilight was falling upon billabong.

the house was hushed and silent. no footfall was allowed to sound where the echo might penetrate to the sick-room. near its precincts mrs. brown and the melbourne trained nurse reigned supreme, and dr. anderson came and went as often as he could manage the fourteen-mile spin out from cunjee in his motor.

norah had a new care—a little fragile old lady, with snowy hair, and depths of infinite sadness in her eyes, whom dick stephenson called “mother.” the doctor would not allow either mother or son into the sick-room—the shock of recognition, should the hermit regain consciousness suddenly, might be too much. so they waited about, agonisingly anxious, pitifully helpless. dick rebelled against the idleness at length. it would kill him, he said, and, borrowing a spade from the chinese gardener, he spent his time in heavy digging, within easy call of the house. but for the wife and mother there was no help. she was gently courteous to all, gently appreciative of norah's attempts to occupy her thoughts. but throughout it all—whether she looked at the pets outside, or walked among the autumn roses in the garden, or struggled to eat at the table—she was listening, ever listening.

in the evening of the third day mr. linton came quickly into the drawing-room. tears were falling down his face. he went up to mrs. stephenson and put his hand on her shoulder.

“it's—it's all right, we think,” he said brokenly. “he's conscious and knew me, dear old chap! i was sitting by the bed, and suddenly his eyes opened and all the fever had gone. 'why, davy!' he said. i told him everything was all right, and he mustn't talk—and he's taken some nourishment, and gone off into a natural sleep. anderson's delighted.” then he caught mrs. stephenson quickly as she slipped to his feet, unconscious.

then there were days of dreary waiting, of slow, harassing convalescence. the patient did not seem to be alive to any outside thought. he gained strength very slowly, but he lay always silent, asking no questions, only when mr. linton entered the room showing any sign of interest. the doctor was vaguely puzzled, vaguely anxious.

“do you think i could go and see him?” norah was outside the door of the sick-room. the doctor often found her there—a little silent figure, listening vainly for her friend's voice. she looked up pleadingly. “not if you think i oughtn't to,” she said.

“i don't believe it would hurt him,” dr. anderson said, looking down at her. “might wake him up a bit—i know you won't excite him.”

so it was that the hermit, waking from a restless sleep, found by his side a small person with brown curls that he remembered.

“why, it's my little friend,” he murmured, feeling weakly for her hand. “this seems a queer world—old friends and new, all mixed up.”

“i'm so glad you're better, dear mr. hermit,” norah said. she bent and kissed him. “and we're all friends—everybody.”

“you did that once before,” he said feebly. “no one had kissed me for such a long, long while. but mustn't let you.”

“why?” asked norah blankly.

“because—because people don't think much of me, miss norah,” he said, a deep shade falling on his fine old face. “they say i'm no good. i don't suppose i'd be allowed to be here, only i'm an old man, and i'm going to die.”

“but you're not!” norah cried. “dr. anderson says you're not! and—and—oh, you're making a great mistake. everyone wants you.”

“me!” said the hermit, in sudden bitter scorn. “no, only strangers like you. not my own.”

“oh, you don't know,” norah protested. she was painfully aware of the order not to excite the patient, but it was awful to let him be so unhappy! “dad's not a stranger—he always knew you. and see how he wants you!”

“dad?” the hermit questioned feebly. “is david linton your father?” she nodded, and for a minute he was silent. “no wonder you and i were friends!” he said. “but you're not all—not even you and davy.”

“no, but—”

he forced a smile, in pity for her perplexity.

“dear little girl, you don't understand,” he said. “there's something even friendship can't wipe out, though such friendship as your father's can bridge it over. but it's always there—a black, cruel gulf. and that's disgrace!”

norah could not bear the misery of his eyes.

“but if it's all a horrible mistake?” she said. “if everybody knew it—?”

“if it's a mistake!”

the hermit's hand was on her wrist like a vice. for a moment norah shivered in fear of what her words might have done.

“what do you mean? for god's sake, tell me?”

she steadied her voice to answer him bravely.

“please, you mustn't get excited, dear mr. hermit,” she said. “i'll tell you. dad told me all about it before we found you. it's all a terrible mistake. every one knows you were a good man. everyone wants to be friends with you. only they thought you were dead.”

“i managed that.” his voice was sharp and eager. “i saw the other body in the river and the rest was easy.” he struggled for calmness and norah held a glass of water to his lips.

“please don't get excited!” she begged.

“i won't,” he smiled at her. “tell me—does everyone know?”

“everyone,” norah nodded. there was a step behind her and a sudden light flashed into the hermit's eyes.

“davy! is it true? i am cleared?”

“years ago, old man.” david linton's voice was husky. “all the world wants to make it up to you.”

“all the world—they're only two!” the sick man said. “do they know?”

“yes.”

“where are they?”

for a moment mr. linton hesitated, not knowing what risk he might run.

“oh! for pity's sake don't be cautious, david,” the hermit begged. “i'll be calm—anything—only don't refuse a starving man bread! davy, tell me!”

“they're here, old man.”

“here! can i—will they—?”

“ah, we've got to be careful of you, jim, old chap,” mr. linton said. “you've been a very sick man—and you're not better yet. but they're only living on the hope of seeing you—of having you again—of making it up to you.”

“and they believe in me?”

“the boy—dick—never believed a word against you,” mr. linton said. “and your wife—ah, if she doubted, she has paid for it again and again in tears. you'll forgive her, jim?”

“yes,” he said simply. “i've been bitter enough god knows, but it all seems gone. you'll bring her, davy?”

but at the word norah was out of the room, racing along the hall.

out in the gardens dick stephenson dug mightily in the hard soil, and his mother watched him, listening always. she heard the flying footsteps on the gravel and turned quickly to meet norah.

“mr. stephenson, he wants you!”

“is he worse?” dick gasped.

“no—i think he's all right. but he knows everything and he wants you both!”

in his room the hermit heard the steps in the hall—the light, slow feet, and the man's tread, that curbed its impatience, lingering to support them. his breath came quickly as he stared at the door.

then for a moment they faced each other, after the weary years; each gaunt and wan and old, but in their eyes the light and the love of long ago. the hermit's eyes wandered an instant to his son's face, seeking in the stalwart man the little lad he knew. then they came back to his wife.

“mary!”

“jim!” she tottered to the bed.

“jim—can you forgive me?”

“forgive—oh, my girl!” the two grey heads were close together. david linton slipped from the room.