"Damp in there, Billy?" queried Wally, with a grave face.

"Plenty!" growled Billy, marching off the log with offended dignity and a dripping leg.

The Hermit had taken Norah's saddle and placed it on Bobs, girthing it up with the quick movements of a practised hand. Norah watched him keenly, and satisfaction crept into her eyes, as, the job done, the old man stroked the pony's glossy neck, and Bobs, scenting a friend, put his nose into his hand.

"He likes you," Norah said; "he doesn't do that to everyone. Do you like horses?"

"Better than men," said the Hermit. "You've a good pony, Miss Norah."

"Yes, he's a beauty," the little girl said. "I've had him since he was a foal."

"He'll carry you home well. Fifteen miles, is it?"

"About that, I think."

"And we'll find Dad hanging over the home paddock gate, wondering where we are," said Jim, coming up, leading his pony. "We'll have to say good-night, sir."

"Good-night, and good-bye," said the Hermit, holding out his hand. "I'm sorry you've all got to go. Perhaps some other holidays—?"

"We'll come out," nodded Jim. He shook hands warmly. "And if ever you find your way in as far as our place—"

"I'm afraid not," said the Hermit hastily. "As I was explaining to Miss Norah, I'm a solitary animal. But I hope to see you all again."

The boys said "good-bye" and mounted. The Hermit held Bobs while Norah swung herself up—the pony was impatient to be gone.

"Good-bye," he said.

Norah looked at him pitifully.

"I won't say good-bye," she said. "I'm coming back—some day. So it's—'so long!'"

"So long," the old man echoed, rather drearily, holding her hand. Then something queer came into his eyes, for suddenly Norah bent from the saddle and kissed his cheek.

He stood long, watching the ponies and the little young figures scurrying across the plain. When they vanished he turned wearily and, with slow steps, went back into the scrub.

* * * * *

They forded the creek carefully, for the water was high, and it was dark in the shadows of the trees on the banks. Jim knew the way well, and so did Norah, and they led, followed by the other boys. When they had crossed, it was necessary to go steadily in the dim light. The track was only wide enough for them to ride in Indian file, which is not a method of locomotion which assists conversation, and they rode almost in silence.

It was queer, down there in the bush, with only cries of far-off birds to break the quiet. Owls and mopokes hooted dismally, and once a great flapping thing flew into Harry's face, and he uttered a startled yell before he realised that it was only one of the night birds—whereat mirth ensued at the expense of Harry. Then to scare away the hooters they put silence to flight with choruses, and the old bush echoed to "Way Down Upon the Swanee River" and more modern songs, which aren't half so sweet as the old Christy Minstrel ditties. After they had exhausted all the choruses they knew, Harry "obliged" with one of Gordon's poems, recited with such boyish simplicity combined with vigour that it quite brought down the audience, who applauded so loudly that the orator was thankful for the darkness to conceal his blushes.

"Old Harry's our champion elocutioner at school, you know," Wally said. "You should have heard him last Speech Day! He got more clapping than all the rest put together."

"Shut up, young Wally!" growled Harry in tones of affected wrath.

"Same to you," said Wally cheerfully. "Why, you had all the mammas howling into their hankies in your encore piece!"

After which nothing would satisfy Norah but another recitation, and another after that; and then the timber ended, and there was only the level plain be tween them and home, with the moon just high enough to make it sufficiently light for a gallop. They tore wildly homeward, and landed in a slightly dishevelled bunch at the gate of the paddock.

No one was about the stables.

"Men all gone off somewhere," said Jim laconically, proceeding to let his pony go. His example was followed by each of the others, the steeds dismissed with a rub and a pat, and the saddles placed on the stands.

"Well, I don't know about you chaps," said Jim, "but I'm as hungry as a hunter!"

"Same here," chorused the chaps.

"Come along and see what good old Brownie's put by for us," said Norah, disappearing towards the house like a small comet.

The boys raced after her. In the kitchen doorway Mrs. Brown stood, her broad face resplendent with smiles.

"I was just beginning to wonder if any of you had fallen into the creek," she said. "You must be hungry, poor dears. Supper's ready."

"Where's Dad?" asked Norah.

"Your Pa's gone to Sydney."

"Sydney!"

"Yes, my dears. A tallygrum came for him—something about some valuable cattle to be sold, as he wants."

"Oh," said Jim, "those shorthorns he was talking about?"

"Very like, Master Jim. Very sorry, your Pa were, he said, to go so suddint, and not to see you again, and the other young gentlemen likewise, seein' you go away on Monday. He left his love to Miss Norah, and a letter for you; and Miss Norah, you was to try not to be dull, and he would be back by Thursday, so he 'oped."

"Oh," said Norah, blankly. "It's hardly a homecoming without Dad."

Supper was over at last, and it had been a monumental meal. To behold the onslaughts made by the four upon Mrs. Brown's extensive preparations one might have supposed that they had previously been starving for time uncounted.

"Heigho!" said Jim. "Our last day to-morrow."

Groans followed from Harry and Wally.

"What do you want to remind a fellow for?"

"Couldn't help it—slipped out. What a jolly sell not to see old Dad again!" Jim wrinkled his brown handsome face into a frown.

"You needn't talk!" said Norah gloomily. "Fancy me on Monday—not a soul to speak to."

"Poor old Norah—yes, it's rough on you," said Jim. "Wish you were coming too. Why can't you get Dad to let you go to school in Melbourne?"

"Thanks," said Norah hastily, "I'd rather not. I think I can bear this better. School! What on earth would I do with myself, shut up all day?"

"Oh, all right; I thought you might like it. You get used to it, you know."

"I couldn't get used to doing without Dad," returned Norah.

"Or Dad to doing without you, I reckon," said Jim. "Oh, I suppose it's better as it is—only you'll have to get taught some day, old chap, I suppose."

"Oh, never mind that now," Norah said impatiently. "I suppose I'll have a governess some day, and she won't let me ride astride, or go after the cattle, or climb trees, or do anything worth doing, and everything will be perfectly hateful. It's simply beastly to be getting old!"

"Cheer up, old party," Jim laughed. "She might be quite a decent sort for all you know. As for riding astride, Dad'll never let you ride any other way, so you can keep your mind easy about that. Well, never mind governesses, anyhow; you haven't got one yet, and sufficient unto the day is the governess thereof. What are we going to do to-morrow?"

"Can't do very much," said Norah, still showing traces of gloom. "It's Sunday; besides, the horses want a spell, and you boys will have to pack—you leave pretty early on Monday, you know."

"Oh, botheration!" said Wally, jumping up so suddenly that he upset his chair. "For goodness' sake, don't talk of going back until we actually get there; it's bad enough then. Let's go and explore somewhere to-morrow."

"We can do that all right," said Jim, glad of any turn being given to the melancholy conversation. "We've never taken you chaps to the falls, two miles up the creek, and they're worth seeing."

"It's a nice walk, too," added Norah, putting sorrow to flight by deftly landing a pellet of bread on Harry's nose. "Think you can struggle so far, Harry?"

"Yes, and carry you back when you knock up," said that gentleman, returning the missile, without success, Norah having retreated behind a vase of roses. "I think it would be a jolly good plan."

"Right oh!" said Jim. "That's settled. We'll pack up in the morning, get Brownie to give us dinner early, and start in good time. It doesn't really take long to walk there, you know, only we want to be able to loaf on the way, and when we get to the falls."

"Rather," said Harry. "I never see any fun in a walk when you tear somewhere, get there, and tear back again. Life's too short. Come on, Norah, and play to us."

So they trooped into the drawing-room, and for an hour the boys lay about on sofas and easy chairs, while Norah played softly. Finally she found that her entire audience was sound asleep, a state of things she very naturally resented by gently pouring water from a vase on their peaceful faces. Peace fled at that, and so did Norah.



CHAPTER X. THE LAST DAY

"Now then, Harry, are you ready?"

"Coming," said Harry's cheerful voice. He appeared on the verandah, endeavouring to cram a gigantic apple into his pocket.

"Norah's," he said, in response to Jim's lifted eyebrows. "Don't know if she means to eat it in sections or not—it certainly doesn't mean to go into my pocket as it is." He desisted from his efforts. "Try it in the crown of your hat, old man."

"Thanks—my hat's got all it knows to hold my brains," retorted Jim. "You can't take that thing. Here, Norah," as that damsel appeared on the step, "how do you imagine Harry's going to cart this apple?"

"Quite simple," said Norah airily. "Cut it in four, and we'll each take a bit."

"That's the judgment of Solomon," said Wally, who was lying full length on the lawn—recovering, as Jim unkindly suggested, from dinner.

"Well, come along," Jim said impatiently—"you're an awfully hard crowd to get started. We want to reach the falls in fair time, to see the sunlight on them—it's awfully pretty. After about three or four o'clock the trees shade the water, and it's quite ordinary."

"Just plain, wet water," murmured Wally. Jim rolled him over and over down the sloping lawn, and then fled, pursued by Wally with dishevelled attire and much grass in his mouth. The others followed more steadily, and all four struck across the paddock to the creek.

It was a rather hot afternoon, and they were glad to reach the shade of the bank and to follow the cattle track that led close to the water. Great fat bullocks lay about under the huge gum trees, scarcely raising their eyes to glance at the children as they passed; none were eating, all were chewing the cud in lazy contentment. They passed through a smaller paddock where superb sheep dotted the grass—real aristocrats these, accustomed to be handled and petted, and to live on the fat of the land—poor grass or rough country food they had never known. Jim and Norah visited some special favourites, and patted them. Harry and Wally admired at a distance.

"Those some of the sheep you saved from the fire?" queried Harry.

Norah flushed.

"Never did," she said shortly, and untruthfully. "Don't know why you can't talk sense, Jim!"—at which that maligned youth laughed excessively, until first the other boys, and then Norah, joined in, perforce.

After again climbing over the sheep-proof fence of the smaller paddock they came out upon a wide plain, almost treeless, save for the timber along the creek, where their cattle track still led them. Far as they could see no fence broke the line of yellow grass. There were groups of cattle out on the plain. These were store bullocks, Jim explained, a draft recently arrived from Queensland, and hardly yet acclimatised.

"It takes a good while for them to settle down," Norah said, "and then lots of 'em get sick—pleuro and things; and we inoculate them, and their tails drop off, and sometimes the sick ones get bad-tempered, and it's quite exciting work mustering."

"Dangerous?" asked Wally.

"Not with a pony that knows things like Bobs," said Bobs' mistress. "He always keeps his weather eye open for danger."

"Not a bad thing, as you certainly don't," laughed Jim.

"Well—do you?"

"Certainly I do," said Jim firmly, whereat Norah laughed very heartily.

"When I leave school, Dad says I can go on the roads with the cattle for one trip," said Jim. "Be no end of fun—takes ever so long to bring them down from Queensland, and the men have a real good time—travel with a cook, and a covered buggy and pair to bring the tucker and tents along."

"What'll you be?" asked Wally—"cook?"

"No, slushy," said Harry.

"No, I'll take you two chaps along in those billets," grinned Jim.

"I don't know who'd be cook," said Norah solemnly; "but I don't think the men would be in very good condition at the end of the trip, whichever of you it was!"

With such pleasantries they beguiled the way, until, on rounding a bend in the track, a dull roar came plainly to their ears.

"What's that?" asked Wally, stopping to listen.

"That's the falls, my boy," replied Jim. "They're really quite respectable falls—almost Niagarous! Come along, we'll see them in a couple of minutes."

The sound of falling water became plainer and plainer as they pushed on. At this point the track was less defined and the scrub thicker—Jim explained that the cattle did not come here much, as there was no drinking-place for them for a good distance below the falls. They might almost have imagined themselves back in the bush near the Hermit's camp, Harry said, as they pushed their way through scrub and undergrowth, many raspberry vines adding variety, if not charm, to the scramble. The last part of the walk was up bill, and at length they came out upon a clearer patch of ground.

For some time the noise of the falls had deepened, until now it was a loud roar; but the sound had hardly prepared the boys for the sight that met their gaze. High up were rocky cliffs, sparsely clothed with vegetation, and through these the creek had cut its way, falling in one sheer mass, fifty feet or more, into the bed below, hollowed out by it during countless ages. The water curved over the top of the fall in one exquisite wave, smooth as polished marble, but half-way down a point of rock jutted suddenly out, and on this the waters dashed and split, flying off from it in a cloud of spray. At the foot the cataract roared and bubbled and seethed in one boiling mass of rapids.

But the glory of it all was the sunlight. It fell right on the mass of descending water; and in the rays the fall glittered and flashed with all the colours of the rainbow, and the flying spray was like powdered jewels. It caught the drops hanging on the ferns that fringed the water, and turned them into twinkling diamonds. The whole fall seemed to be alive in the sunbeams' dancing light.

"Oh-h, I say," whispered Harry. "Fancy never showing us this before!" He cast himself on the ground and lay, chin in hands, gazing at the wonder before him.

"We kept it to the last," said Norah softly. She sat down by him and the others followed their example.

"Just think," said Harry, "that old creek's been doing that ever since time began—every day the sun comes to take his share at lighting it up, long before we were born, and ages after we shall die! Doesn't it make you feel small!"

Norah nodded understandingly. "I saw it once by moonlight," she said. "Dad and I rode here one night—full moon. Oh, it was lovely! Not like this, of course, because there wasn't any colour—but a beautiful white, clean light, and the fall was like a sheet of silver."

"Did you ever throw anything over?" asked Wally. His wonderment was subsiding and the boy in him woke up again.

"No good," said Jim. "You never see it again. I've thrown a stick in up above, and it simply whisks over and gets sucked underneath the curtain of water at once, and disappears altogether until it reaches the smooth water, ever so far down."

"Say you went over yourself?"

"Wouldn't be much left of you," Jim answered, with a laugh. "The bed of the creek's simply full of rocks—you can see a spike sticking up here and there in the rapids. We've seen sheep come down in flood-time—they get battered to bits. I don't think I'll try any experiments, thank you, young Wally."

"You always were a disobliging critter," Wally grinned.

"Another time a canoe came over," Jim said. "It belonged to two chaps farther up—they'd just built it, and were out for the first time, and got down too near the falls. They didn't know much about managing their craft, and when the suck of the water began to take them along they couldn't get out of the current. They went faster and faster, struggling to paddle against the stream, instead of getting out at an angle and making for the bank—which they might have done. At last they could hear the roar of the falls quite plainly."

"What happened to them?" asked Wally. "Did they go over?"

"Well, they reckoned it wasn't healthy to remain in the canoe," said Jim. "It was simply spinning along in the current, and the falls were almost in sight. So they dived in, on opposite sides—the blessed canoe nearly tipped over when they stood up, and only the shock of the cross drive kept her right. Of course the creek's not so very wide, even farther up beyond the falls, and the force of their spring sent them nearly out of the current. They could both swim well, and after a struggle they got to the banks, just in time to see the canoe whisk over the waterfall!"

"What hard luck!"

"It was rather. They started off down-stream to find it, but for a long way they couldn't see a trace. Then, right in the calm water, ever so far down, they found it—bit by bit. It was broken into so much matchwood!"

"What did they do?" asked Wally.

"Stood and stared at it from opposite sides, like two wet images," said Jim, laughing. "It's lowdown to grin, I suppose, but they must have looked funny. Then one of them swam across and they made their way to our place, and we fixed them up with dry things and drove them home. I don't think they've gone in for canoeing since!" finished Jim reflectively.

"Well, I guess it would discourage them a bit," Wally agreed. "Getting shipwrecked's no fun."

"Ever tried it?"

"Once—in Albert Park Lagoon," Wally admitted bashfully. "Some of us went out for a sail one Saturday afternoon. We didn't know much about it, and I really don't know what it was that tipped the old boat over. I was the smallest, so naturally I wasn't having any say in managing her."

"That accounts for it," said Jim dryly.

"Didn't mean that—goat!" said Wally. "Anyhow, I was very much astonished to find myself suddenly kicking in the mud. Ever been in that lake? It isn't nice. It isn't deep enough to drown you, but the mud is a caution. I got it all over me—face and all!"

"You must have looked your best!" said Jim.

"I did. I managed to stand up, very much amazed to find I wasn't drowned. Two of the others walked out! I was too small to do more than just manage to keep upright. The water was round my chest. I couldn't have walked a yard."

"How did you manage?"

"A boat came along and picked up the survivors," grinned Wally. "They wouldn't take us in. We were just caked with mud, so I don't blame 'em—but we hung on to the stern, and they towed us to the shore. We were quite close to land. Then they went back and brought our boat to us. They were jolly kind chaps—didn't seem to mind any trouble."

"You don't seem to have minded it, either," said Norah.

"We were too busy laughing," Wally said. "You have to expect these things when you go in for a life on the ocean wave. The worst part of it came afterwards, when we went home. That was really unpleasant. I was staying at my aunt's in Toorak."

"Did you get into a row?"

"It was unpleasant," Wally repeated. "Aunts haven't much sympathy, you know. They don't like mess, and I was no end messy. We won't talk about it, I think, thank you." Wally rolled over on his back, produced an apple and bit into it solemnly.

"Let us respect his silence," said Jim.

"You had aunts too?" queried Wally, with his mouth full.

"Not exactly aunts," Jim said. "But we had an old Tartar of a housekeeper once, when we were small kids. She ruled us with a rod of iron for about six months, and Norah and I could hardly call our souls our own. Father used to be a good deal away and Mrs. Lister could do pretty well as she liked."

"I did abominate that woman," said Norah reflectively.

"I don't wonder," replied Jim. "You certainly were a downtrodden little nipper as ever was. D'you remember the time we went canoeing in the flood on your old p'rambulator?"

"Not likely to forget it."

"What was it?" Wally asked. "Tell us, Jim."

"Norah had a pram—like most kids," Jim began.

"Well, I like that," said Norah, in great indignation. "It was yours first!"

"Never said it wasn't," said Jim somewhat abashed by the laughter that ensued. "But that was ages ago. It was yours at this time, anyhow. But only the lower storey was left—just the floor of the pram on three wheels. Norah used to sit on this thing and push herself along with two sticks, like rowing on dry land."

"It was no end of fun," said Norah. "You could go!"

"You could," grinned Jim. "I'll never forget the day I saw you start from the top of the hill near the house. The pram got a rate on of a mile a minute, and the sticks weren't needed. About half-way down it struck a root, and turned three double somersaults in the air. I don't know how many Norah turned—but when Dad and I got to the spot she was sitting on a thick mat of grass, laughing like one o'clock, and the pram was about half a mile away on the flat with its wheels in the air! We quite reckoned you were killed."

"Yes, and Dad made me promise not to go down that hill again," said Norah ruefully. "It was a horrid nuisance!"

"Well, there was a flood," said Jim. "Not very much of a one. We'd had a good bit of rain, and the water-hole in the home paddock overflowed and covered all the flat about two feet deep. At first it was a bit too deep for Norah and her wheeled boat, but when it went down a bit she set off voyaging. She did look a rum little figure, out in the middle of the water, pushing herself along with her two sticks! Mrs. Lister didn't approve of it, but as Dad had given her leave, the housekeeper couldn't stop her."

At this point Norah was heard to murmur "Cat!"

"Just so!" said Jim. "Well, you know, I used to poke fun at Norah and this thing. But one day I had gone down to the water's edge, and she came up on it, poling herself through the water at a great rate, and it occurred to me it didn't look half bad fun. So I suggested a turn myself."

"You said, 'Here, kid, let's have that thing for a bit,'" said Norah firmly.

"Did I?" said Jim, with meekness.

"Yes, you did. So I kindly got off."

"Then?" asked Harry.

"He got on. I said, 'Jim, dear, pray be careful about the holes, and let me tell you where they are!'"

"I'm sure you did!" grinned Wally.

"And he said, 'If a kid like you can keep out of holes, I guess I can!'"

"I'm sure he did!" said Wally.

"Yes. So he set off. Now I had been over that flat so often in dry weather that I knew every bit of it. But Jim didn't. He went off as hard as he could, and got on very well for a little bit—"

"Am I telling this yarn, or are you?" inquired Jim, laughing.

"This is the part that is best for me to tell," said Norah solemnly. "Then he turned suddenly, so suddenly I hadn't time to do more than yell a warning, which he didn't hear—and the next minute the side wheels of the pram went over the edge of a hole, and the thing turned upside down upon poor old Jimmy!"

"How lovely!" said Wally, kicking with delight. "Well, and what happened?"

"Oh, Jim can tell you now," laughed Norah. "I wasn't under the water!"

"I was!" said Jim. "The blessed old pram turned clean over and cast me bodily into a hole. That was all I knew—until I tried to get out, and found the pram had come, too, and was right on top of me—and do you think I could move that blessed thing?"

"Well?"

"In came Norah," said Jim. "(I'll take it out of you now, my girl!) She realised at once what had happened and waded in from the bank and pulled the old pram off her poor little brother! I came up, spluttering, to see Norah, looking very white, just preparing to dive in after me!"

"You never saw such a drowned rat!" said Norah, taking up the tale. "Soaked—and muddy—and very cross! And the first thing he did was to abuse my poor old wheely-boat!"

"Well—wouldn't you?" Jim laughed. "Had to abuse something! Anyhow, we righted her and Norah waded farther in after the sticks, which had floated peacefully away, and we pulled the wheely-boat ashore. Then we roared laughing at each other. I certainly was a drowned rat, but Norah wasn't much better, as she'd slipped nearly into the hole herself, in pulling the pram off me. But when we'd laughed, the first thought was—'How are we going to dodge Mrs. Lister!' It was a nasty problem!"

"What did you do?"

"Well, after consultation we got up near the house, planting the pram in some trees. We dodged through the shrubbery until we reached that old summer-house, and there I left Norah and scooted over to the stables, and borrowed an overcoat belonging to a boy we had working and a pair of his boots. Dad was away, or I might have gone straight to him. I put on the borrowed things over my wet togs (and very nice I looked!) and trotted off to the side of the house. No one seemed about, so I slipped into my room through the window and then into Norah's, and got a bundle of clothes, and back I scooted to the summer-house, left Norah's things there, and found a dressing-room for myself among some shrubs close by.

"Well, do you know, that old cat, Mrs. Lister, had seen us all the time? She'd actually spotted us coming up the paddock, dripping, and had deliberately planted herself to see what we'd do. She knew all about my expedition after clothes; then she followed us to the shrubbery, and descended upon us like an avalanche, just as we got half-dressed!"

"'May I ask what you naughty little children are doing?' she said.

"Well, you know, that put my back up a bit—'cause I was nearly twelve, and Dad didn't make a little kid of me. However, I tried to keep civil, and tell her what had happened; but she told me to hold my tongue. She grabbed Norah by the shoulder, and called her all the names under the sun, and shook her. Then she said, 'You'll come to bed at once, miss!' and caught hold of her wrist to drag her in.

"Now Norah had sprained her wrist not long before, and she had to be a bit careful of it. We all knew that. She didn't cry out when Mrs. Lister jerked her wrist, but I saw her turn white, and knew it was the bad one."

"So he chucked himself on top of old Mrs. Lister, and pounded her as hard as he could," put in Norah, "and she was so astonished she let me go. She turned her attention to Jim then, and gave him a terrible whack over the head that sent him flying. And just then we heard a voice that was so angry we hardly recognised it for Dad's, saying—

"'What is this all about?'"

"My word, we were glad to see Dad!" said Jim. "He came over and put his arm round Norah—poor little kid. Mrs. Lister had screwed her wrist till it was worse than ever it had been, and she was as white as a sheet. Dad helped her on with her clothes. All the time Mrs. Lister was pouring out a flood of eloquence against us, and was nearly black in the face with rage. Dad took no notice until Norah was dressed. Then he said, 'Come to me in the study in twenty minutes,' and he picked Norah up and carried her inside, where he dosed her, and fixed up her wrist. I put on my clothes and followed them.

"Norah and I never said anything until Mrs. Lister had told her story, which was a fine production, little truth, and three parts awful crams. Then Dad asked for our side, and we just told him. He knew we never told lies, and he believed us, and we told him some other things Mrs. Lister used to do to us in the way of bullying and spite. I don't know that Dad needed them, because Norah's wrist spoke louder than fifty tales, and he didn't need any more evidence, though after all, she might have grabbed the bad wrist by mistake, and she had done far worse things on purpose. But the end of it was, Mrs. Lister departed that night, and Norah and I danced a polka in the hall when we heard the buggy drive off."

"That being the case," said Norah gravely, "we'll all have an apple."

The apples were produced and discussed, and then it was time to think of home, for the sun had long since left the glistening surface of the falls. So they gathered themselves up, and reluctantly enough left the beautiful scene behind them, with many a backward look.

The way home was rather silent. The shadow of the boys' departure was over them all, and Norah especially felt the weight of approaching loneliness. With Dad at home it would have been easier to let the boys go, but the prospect of several days by herself, with only the servants for company, was not a very comforting one. Norah wished dismally that she had been born a boy, with the prospect of a journey, and mates, and school, and "no end of larks." Then she thought of Dad, and though still dismal, unwished the wish, and was content to remain a girl.

There was a little excitement on the homeward trip over a snake, which tried to slip away unseen through the grass, and when it found itself surrounded by enemies, coiled itself round Harry's leg, a proceeding very painful to that youth, who nevertheless stood like a statue while Jim dodged about for a chance to strike at the wildly waving head. He got it at last, and while the reptile writhed in very natural annoyance, Harry managed to get free, and soon put a respectful distance between himself and his too-affectionate acquaintance. Jim finished up the snake, and they resumed the track, keeping a careful look-out, and imagining another in every rustle.

"Well done, old Harry!" said Wally. "Stood like a statue, you did!"

"Thanks!" said Harry. "Jim's the chap to say 'Well done' to, I think."

"Not me," said Jim. "Easy enough to try to kill the brute. I'd rather do that than feel him round my leg, where I couldn't get at him."

"Well, I think I would, too," Harry said, laughing. "I never felt such a desire to stampede in my life."

"It was beastly," affirmed Norah. She was a little pale. "It seemed about an hour before he poked his horrid head out and let Jim get a whack at it. But you didn't lose much time, then, Jimmy!"

"Could he have bitten through the leg of your pants?" queried Wally, with interest.

"He couldn't have sent all the venom through, I think," Jim replied. "But enough would have gone to make a very sick little Harry."

"It'd be an interesting experiment, no doubt," said Harry. "But, if you don't mind, I'll leave it for someone else to try. I'd recommend a wooden-legged man as the experimenter. He'd feel much more at his ease while the snake was trying how much venom he could get through a pant leg!"



CHAPTER XI. GOOD-BYE

"I was just a-goin' to ring the big bell," said Mrs. Brown.

She was standing on the front verandah as the children came up the lawn.

"Why, we're not late, Brownie, are we?" asked Norah.

"Not very." The old housekeeper smiled at her. "Only when your Pa's away I allers feels a bit nervis about you—sech thoughtless young people, an' all them animals and snakes about!"

"Gammon!" said Jim laughing. "D'you mean to say I can't look after them, Brownie?"

"I'd rather not say anythink rash, Master Jim," rejoined Mrs. Brown with a twinkle.

"I guess Mrs. Brown's got the measure of your foot, old man," grinned Harry.

"Oh, well," said Jim resignedly, "a chap never gets his due in this world. I forgive you, Brownie, though you don't deserve it. Got a nice tea for us?"

"Sech as it is, Master Jim, it's waitin' on you," said Mrs. Brown, with point.

"That's what you might call a broad hint," cried Jim. "Come on, chaps—race you for a wash-up!"

They scattered, Mrs. Brown laying violent hands on the indignant Norah, and insisting on arraying her in a clean frock, which the victim resisted, as totally unnecessary. Mrs. Brown carried her point, however, and a trim little maiden joined the boys in the dining-room five minutes later.

Mrs. Brown's cooking was notable, and she had excelled herself over the boys' farewell tea. A big cold turkey sat side by side with a ham of majestic dimensions, while the cool green of a salad was tempting after the hot walk. There were jellies, and a big bowl of fruit salad, while the centre of the table was occupied by a tall cake, raising aloft glittering white tiers. There were scones and tarts and wee cakes, and dishes of fresh fruit, and altogether the boys whistled long and softly, and declared that "Brownie was no end of a brick!"

Whereat Mrs. Brown, hovering about to see that her charges wanted nothing, smiled and blushed, and said, "Get on, now, do!"

Jim carved, and Jim's carving was something to marvel at. No method came amiss to him. When he could cut straight he did; at other times he sawed; and, when it seemed necessary, he dug. After he had finished helping every one, Wally said that the turkey looked as if a dog had been at it, and the ham was worse, which remarks Jim meekly accepted as his due. Nor did the inartistic appearance of the turkey prevent the critic from coming back for more!

Everyone was hungry, and did full justice to "Brownie's" forethought; while Norah, behind the tall teapot, declared that it was a job for two men and a boy to pour out for such a thirsty trio. Harry helped the fruit salad, and Harry's helpings were based on his own hunger, and would have suited Goliath. Finally, Norah cut the cake with great ceremony, and Wally's proposal that everyone should retire to the lawn with a "chunk" was carried unanimously.

Out on the grass they lay and chattered, while the dusk came down, and slowly a pale moon climbed up into the sky. Norah alone was silent. After a while Harry and Wally declared they must go and pack, and Jim and his sister were left alone.

Wally and Harry scurried down the hail. The sound of their merry voices died away, and there was silence on the lawn.

Jim rolled nearer to Norah.

"Blue, old girl?"

"'M," said a muffled voice.

Jim felt for her hand in the darkness—and found it. The small, brown fingers closed tightly round his rough paw.

"I know," he said comprehendingly. "I'm awfully sorry, old woman. I do wish we hadn't to go."

There was no answer. Jim knew why—and also knowing perfectly well that tears would mean the deepest shame, he talked on without requiring any response.

"Beastly hard luck," he said. "We don't want to go a bit—fancy school after this! Ugh! But there are three of us, so it isn't so bad. It wouldn't matter if Dad was at home, for you. But I must say it's lowdown to be leaving you all by your lonely little self."

Norah struggled hard with that abominable lump in her throat, despising herself heartily.

"Brownie'll be awfully good to you," went on Jim. "You'll have to buck up, you know, old girl, and not let yourself get dull. You practise like one o'clock; or make jam, or something; or get Brownie to let you do some cooking. Anything to keep you 'from broodin' on bein' a dorg,' as old David Harum says. There's all the pets to look after, you know—you've got to keep young black Billy up to the mark, or he'll never feed 'em properly, and if you let him alone he changes the water in the dishes when the last lot's dry. And, by George, Norah"—Jim had a bright idea—"Dad told me last night he meant to shift those new bullocks into the Long Plain. Ten to one he forgot all about it, going away so suddenly. You'll have to see to it."

"I'd like that," said Norah, feeling doubtfully for her voice.

"Rather—best thing you can do," Jim said eagerly. "Take Billy with you, of course, and a dog. They're not wild, and I don't think you'll have any trouble—only be very careful to get 'em all—examine all the scrub in the paddock. Billy knows how many there ought to be. I did know, but, of course, I've forgotten. Of course Dad may have left directions with one of the men about it already."

"Well, I could go too, couldn't I?" queried Norah.

"Rather. They'd be glad to have you."

"Well, I'll be glad of something to do. I wasn't looking forward to to-morrow."

"No," said Jim, "I know you weren't. Never mind, you keep busy. You might drive into Cunjee with Brownie on Tuesday—probably you'd get a letter from Dad a day earlier, and hear when he's coming home—and if he says he's coming home on Thursday, Wednesday won't seem a bit long. You'll be as right as ninepence if you buck up."

"I will, old chap. Only I wish you weren't going."

"So do I," said Jim, "and so do the other chaps. They want to come again some holidays."

"Well, I hope you'll bring them."

"My word! I will. Do you know, Norah, they think you're no end of a brick?"

"Do they?" said Norah, much pleased. "Did they tell you?"

"They're always telling me. Now, you go to bed, old girl."

He rose and pulled her to her feet.

Norah put her arms round his neck—a very rare caress.

"Good night," she said. "I—I do love you, Jimmy!"

Jim hugged her.

"Same here, old chap," he said.

There was such scurrying in the early morning. Daylight revealed many things that had been overlooked in the packing overnight, and they had to be crammed in, somehow. Other things were remembered which had not been packed, and which must be found, and diligent hunt had to be made for them.

Norah was everybody's mate, running on several errands at once, finding Jim's school cap near Harry's overcoat while she was looking for Wally's cherished snake-skin. Her strong brown hands pulled tight the straps of bulging bags on which their perspiring owners knelt, puffing. After the said bags were closed and carried out to the buggy, she found the three toothbrushes, and crammed each, twisted in newspaper, into its owner's pocket. She had no time to think she was dull.

Mrs. Brown, who had been up since dawn, had packed a huge hamper, and superintended its placing in the buggy. It was addressed to "Master James, Master Harry, and Master Wallie," and later Jim reported that its contents were such as to make the chaps at school speechless—a compliment which filled Mrs. Brown with dismay, and a wish that she had put in less pastry and perhaps a little castor oil. At present she felt mildly safe about it and watched it loaded with a sigh of relief.

"Boom-m-m!" went the big gong, and the boys rushed to the dining-room, where Norah was ready to pour out tea.

"You have some, Norah," said Harry, retaining his position close to the teapot, whence Wally had vainly striven to dislodge him.

"Yes, old girl, you eat some breakfast," commanded Jim.

Norah flashed a smile at him over the cosy.

"Lots of time afterwards," she said, a little sadly.

"No time like the present." Wally took a huge bite out of a scone, and surveyed the relic with interest. Someone put a smoking plateful before him, and his further utterances were lost in eggs and bacon.

Mrs. Brown flitted about like a stout guardian angel, keeping an especially watchful eye on Jim. If the supply on his plate lessened perceptibly, it was replenished with more, like manna from above. To his laughing protests she merely murmured, "Poor dear lamb!" whereat Wally and Harry laughed consumedly, and Jim blushed.

"Well, you've beaten me at last, Brownie," Jim declared finally. He waved away a chop which was about to descend upon his plate. "No truly, Brownie dear; there are limits! Tea? No thanks, Norah, I've had about a dozen cups already, I believe! You fellows ready?"

They were, and the table was briskly deserted.

There was a final survey of the boys' room, which resembled a rubbish heap, owing to vigorous packing.

Everybody ran wildly about looking for something.

Wally was found searching frantically for his cap, which Norah discovered—on his head. There was a hurried journey to the kitchen, to bid the servants "Good-bye."

The buggy wheels scrunched the gravel before the hall door. The overseer coo-ee'd softly.

"All aboard!"

"All right, Evans!" Jim appeared in the doorway, staggering under a big Gladstone bag. Billy, similarly laden, followed. His black face was unusually solemn.

"Chuck 'em in, Billy. Come on, you chaps!"

The chaps appeared.

"Good-bye, Norah. It's been grand!" Harry pumped her hand vigorously.

"Wish you were coming!" said Wally dismally. "Good-bye. Write to us, won't you, Norah?"

"Now then, Master Jim!" Evans glanced at his watch.

"Right oh!" said Jim. He put his arm round the little girl's shoulders and looked keenly into her face. There was no hint of breaking down. Norah met his gaze steadily and smiled at him. But the boy knew.

"Good-bye, little chap," he said, and kissed her. "You'll keep your pecker up?"

She nodded. "Good-bye, Jimmy, old boy."

Jim sprang into the buggy.

"All right, Evans."

They whirled down the drive. Looking back, waving their caps, the boys carried away a memory of a brave little figure, erect, smiling and lonely on the doorstep.



CHAPTER XII. THE WINFIELD MURDER

The next few days went by slowly enough.

Norah followed faithfully all Jim's plans for her amusement. She practised, did some cooking, and helped Mrs. Brown preserve apricots; then there were the pets to look to and, best of all, the bullocks to move from one paddock to another. It was an easy job, and Evans was quite willing to leave it to Norah, Billy and a dog. The trio made a great business of it, and managed almost to forget loneliness in the work of hunting through the scrub and chasing the big, sleepy half-fat beasts out upon the clear plain. There were supposed to be forty-four in the paddock, but Norah and Billy mustered forty-five, and were exceedingly proud of themselves in consequence.

Next day Norah persuaded Mrs. Brown to allow herself to be driven into Cunjee. There was nothing particular to go for, except that, as Norah said, they would get the mail a day earlier; but Mrs. Brown was not likely to refuse anything that would chase the look of loneliness from her charge's face. Accordingly they set off after an early lunch, Norah driving the pair of brown ponies in a light single buggy that barely held her and her by no means fairy-like companion.

The road was good and they made the distance in excellent time, arriving in Cunjee to see the daily train puff its way out of the station. Then they separated, as Norah had no opinion whatever of Mrs. Brown's shopping—principally in drapers' establishments, which this bush maiden hated cordially. So Mrs. Brown, unhampered, plunged into mysteries of flannel and sheeting, while Norah strolled up the principal street and exchanged greetings with those she knew.

She paused by the door of a blacksmith's shop, for the smith and she were old friends, and Norah regarded Blake as quite the principal person of Cunjee. Generally there were horses to be looked at, but just now the shop was empty, and Blake came forward to talk to the girl.

"Seen the p'lice out your way?" he asked presently, after the weather, the crops, and the dullness of business had been exhausted as topics.

"Police?" queried Norah. "No. Why?"

"There was two mounted men rode out in your direction yesterday," Blake answered. "They're on the track of that Winfield murderer, they believe."

"What was that?" asked Norah blankly. "I never heard of it."

"Not heard of the Winfield murder! Why, you can't read the papers, missy, surely?"

"No; of course I don't," Norah said. "Daddy doesn't like me to read everyday ones."

Blake nodded.

"No, I s'pose not," he said. "You're too young to worry your little head about murders and suchlike. But everybody was talkin' about the Winfield affair, so I sorter took it for granted that you'd know about it."

"Well, I don't," said Norah. "What is it all about?"

"There's not very much I can tell you about it, missy," Blake said, scratching his head and looking down at the grave lace. "Nobody knows much about it.

"Winfield's a little bit of a place about twenty miles from 'ere, you know—right in the bush and away from any rail or coach line. On'y a couple o' stores, an' a hotel, an' a few houses. Don't suppose many people out o' this district ever heard of it, it's that quiet an' asleep.

"Well, there was two ol' men livin' together in a little hut a mile or so from the Winfield township. Prospectors, they said they were—an' there was an idea that they'd done pretty well at the game, an' had a bit of gold hidden somewhere about their camp. They kept very much to themselves, an' never mixed with anyone—when one o' them came into the township for stores he'd get his business done an' clear out as quick as possible.

"Well, about a month ago two fellows called Bowen was riding along a bush track between Winfield an' their camp when they came across one o' the ol' mates peggin' along the track for all he was worth. They was surprised to see that he was carryin' a big swag, an' was apparently on a move.

"'Hullo, Harris!' they says—'leavin' the district?' He was a civil spoken ol' chap as a rule, so they was rather surprised when he on'y give a sort o' grunt, an' hurried on.

"They was after cattle, and pretty late the same day they found themselves near the hut where the two ol' chaps lived, an' as they was hungry an' thirsty, they reckoned they'd call in an' see if they could get a feed. So they rode up and tied their horses to a tree and walked up to the hut. No one answered their knock, so they opened the door, an' walked in. There, lyin' on his bunk, was ol' Waters. They spoke to him, but he didn't answer. You see, missy, he couldn't, bein' dead."

"Dead!" said Norah, her eyes dilating.

Blake nodded.

"Stone dead," he said. "They thought at first he'd just died natural, as there was no mark o' violence on 'im, but when they got a doctor to examine 'im he soon found out very different. The poor ol' feller 'ad been poisoned, missy; the doctor said 'e must a' bin dead twelve hours when the Bowens found 'im. Everything of value was gone from the hut along with his mate, old Harris—the black-hearted villain he must be!"

"Why, do they think he killed the other man?" Norah asked.

"Seems pretty certain, missy," Blake replied. "In fact, there don't seem the shadder of a doubt. He was comin' straight from the hut when the Bowens met 'im—an' he'd cleared out the whole place, gold an' all. Oh, there ain't any doubt about Mr. Harris bein' the guilty party. The only thing doubtful is Mr. Harris's whereabouts."

"Have the police been looking for him?" asked Norah.

"Huntin' high an' low—without any luck. He seems to have vanished off the earth. They've bin follerin' up first one clue and then another without any result. Now the last is that he's been seen somewhere the other side of your place, an' two troopers have gone out to-day to see if there's any truth in the rumour."

"I think it's awfully exciting," Norah said, "but I'm terribly sorry for the poor man who was killed. What a wicked old wretch the other must be!—his own mate, too! I wonder what he was like. Did you know him?"

"Well, I've seen old Harris a few times—not often," Blake replied. "Still, he wasn't the sort of old man you'd forget. Not a bad-looking old chap, he was. Very tall and well set up, with piercin' blue eyes, long white hair an' beard, an' a pretty uppish way of talkin'. I don't fancy anyone about here knew him very well—he had a way of keepin' to himself. One thing, there's plenty lookin' out for him now."

"I suppose so," Norah said. "I wonder will he really get away?"

"Mighty small chance," said Blake. "Still, it's wonderful how he's managed to keep out of sight for so long. Of course, once in the bush it might be hard to find him—but sooner or later he must come out to some township for tucker, an' then everyone will be lookin' out for him. They may have got him up your way by now, missy. Is your Pa at home?"

"He's coming home in a day or two," Norah said; "perhaps to-morrow. I hope they won't find Harris and bring him to our place."

"Well, it all depends on where they find him if they do get him," Blake replied. "Possibly they might find the station a handy place to stop at. However, missy, don't you worry your head about it—nothing for you to be frightened about."

"Why, I'm not frightened," Norah said. "It hasn't got anything to do with me. Only I don't want to see a man who could kill his mate, that's all."

"He's much like any other man," said Blake philosophically. "Say, here's someone comin' after you, missy, I think."

"I thought I'd find you here," exclaimed Mrs. Brown's fat, comfortable voice, as its owner puffed her way up the slope leading to the blacksmith's. "Good afternoon, Mr. Blake. I've finished all my shopping, Miss Norah, my dear, and the mail's in, and here's a letter for you, as you won't be sorry to see."

"From Dad? How lovely!" and Norah, snatching at the grey envelope with its big, black writing, tore it open hastily. At the first few words, she uttered a cry of delight.

"Oh, he's coming home to-morrow, Brownie—only another day! He says he thinks it's time he was home, with murderers roaming about the district!" and Norah executed a few steps of a Highland fling, greatly to the edification of the blacksmith.

"Dear sakes alive!" said Mrs. Brown, truculently. "I think there are enough of us at the station to look after you, murderer or no murderer—not as 'ow but that 'Arris must be a nasty creature! Still I'm very glad your Pa's coming, Miss Norah, because nothing do seem right when he's away—an' it's dull for you, all alone."

"Master Jim gone back, I s'pose?" queried Blake.

"Yesterday," Norah added.

"Then you must be lonely," the old blacksmith said, taking Norah's small brown hand, and holding it for a moment in his horny fist very much as if he feared it were an eggshell, and not to be dropped. "Master Jim's growing a big fellow, too—goin' to be as big a man as his father, I believe. Well, good-bye, missy, and don't forget to come in next time you're in the township."

There was nothing further to detain them in Cunjee, and very soon the ponies were fetched from the stables, and they were bowling out along the smooth metal road that wound its way across the plain, and Norah was mingling excited little outbursts of delight over her father's return with frequent searches into a big bag of sweets which Mrs. Brown had thoughtfully placed on the seat of the buggy.

"I don't know why Blake wanted to go telling you about that nasty murderer," Mrs. Brown said. They were ten miles from Cunjee, and the metal road had given place to a bush track, in very fair order.

"Why not?" asked Norah, with the carelessness of twelve years.

"Well, tales of murders aren't the things for young ladies' ears," Mrs. Brown said primly. "Your Pa never tells you such things. The paper's been full of this murder, but I would 'a' scorned to talk to you about it."

"I don't think Blake meant any harm," said Norah. "He didn't say so very much. I don't suppose he'd have mentioned it, only that Mr. Harris is supposed to have come our way, and even that doesn't seem certain."

"'Arris 'as baffled the police," said Mrs. Brown, with the solemn pride felt by so many at the worsting of the guardians of the law. "They don't reely know anythink about his movements, that's my belief. Why, it's weeks since he was seen. This yarn about his comin' this way is on'y got up to 'ide the fact that they don't know a thing about it. I don't b'lieve he's anywhere within coo-ee of our place. Might be out of the country now, for all anyone's sure of."

"Blake seemed to think he'd really come this way;" Norah said.

"Blake's an iggerant man," said Mrs. Brown loftily.

"Well, I'll keep a look-out for him, at any rate," laughed Norah. "He ought to be easy enough to find—tall and good-looking and well set up—whatever that may mean—and long white beard and hair. He must be a pretty striking-looking sort of old man. I—" And then recollection swept over Norah like a flood, and her words faltered on her lips.

Her hand gripped the reins tighter, and she drove on unconsciously. Blake's words were beating in her ears. "Not a bad-looking old chap—very tall and well set up—piercing blue eyes and a pretty uppish way of talking." The description had meant nothing to her until someone whom it fitted all too aptly had drifted across her mental vision.

The Hermit! Even while she felt and told herself that it could not be, the fatal accuracy of the likeness made her shudder. It was perfect—the tall, white-haired old man—"not the sort of old man you'd forget"—with his distinguished look; the piercing blue eyes—but Norah knew what kindliness lay in their depths—the gentle refined voice, so different from most of the rough country voices. It would answer to Blake's "pretty uppish way of talking." Anyone who had read the description would, on meeting the Hermit, immediately identify him as the man for whom the police were searching. Norah's common sense told her that.

A wave of horror swept over the little girl, and the hands gripping the reins trembled. Common sense might tell one tale, but every instinct of her heart told a very different one. That gentle-faced old man, with a world of kindness in his tired eyes—he the man who killed his sleeping mate for a handful of gold! Norah set her square little chin. She would not—could not—believe it.

"Why, you're very quiet, dearie." Mrs. Brown glanced inquiringly at her companion. "A minute ago you was chatterin', and now you've gone down flat, like old soda-water. Is anything wrong?"

"No, I'm all right, Brownie. I was only thinking," said Norah, forcing a smile.

"Too many sweeties, I expect," said Mrs. Brown, laying a heavy hand on the bag and impounding it for future reference. "Mustn't have you get indigestion, an' your Pa comin' home to-morrow."

Norah laughed.

"Now, did you ever know me to have indigestion in my life?" she queried.

"Well, perhaps not," Mrs. Brown admitted. "Still, you never can tell; it don' do to pride oneself on anything. If it ain't indigestion, you've been thinking too much of this narsty murder."

Norah flicked the off pony deliberately with her whip.

"Darkie is getting disgracefully lazy," she said. "He's not doing a bit of the work. Nigger's worth two of him." The injured Darkie shot forward with a bound, and Mrs. Brown grabbed the side of the buggy hastily, and in her fears at the pace for the ensuing five minutes forgot her too inconvenient cross-examination.

Norah settled back into silence, her forehead puckered with a frown. She had never in her careless little life been confronted by such a problem as the one that now held her thoughts. That the startling similarity between her new-made friend and the description of the murderer should fasten upon her mind, was unavoidable. She struggled against the idea as disloyal, but finally decided to think it out calmly.

The descriptions tallied. So much was certain. The verbal likeness of one man was an exact word painting of the other, so far as it went, "though," as poor Norah reflected, "you can't always tell a person just by hearing what he's like." Then there was no denying that the conduct of the Hermit would excite suspicion. He was camping alone in the deepest recesses of a lonely tract of scrub; he had been there some weeks, and she had had plenty of proof that he was taken aback at being discovered and wished earnestly that no future prowlers might find their way to his retreat. She recalled his shrinking from the boys, and his hasty refusal to go to the homestead. He had said in so many words that he desired nothing so much as to be left alone—any one would have gathered that he feared discovery. They had all been conscious of the mystery about him. Her thoughts flew back to the half-laughing conversation between Harry and Wally, when they had actually speculated as to why he was hiding. Putting the case fairly and squarely, Norah had to admit that it looked black against the Hermit.

Against it, what had she? No proof; only a remembrance of two honest eyes looking sadly at her; of a face that had irresistibly drawn her confidence and friendship; of a voice whose tones had seemed to echo sincerity and kindness. It was absolutely beyond Norah's power to believe that the hand that had held hers so gently could have been the one to strike to death an unsuspecting mate. Her whole nature revolted against the thought that her friend could be so base.

"He was in trouble," Norah said, over and over again, in her uneasy mind; "he was unhappy. But I know he wasn't wicked. Why, Bobs made friends with him!"

The thought put fresh confidence in her mind; Bobs always knew "a good sort."

"I won't say anything," she decided at last, as they wheeled round the corner of the homestead. "If they knew there was a tall old man there, they'd go and hunt him out, and annoy him horribly. I know he's all right. I'll hold my tongue about him altogether—even to Dad."

The coach dropped Mr. Linton next day at the Cross Roads, where a little figure, clad in white linen, sat in the buggy, holding the brown ponies, while the dusky Billy was an attendant sprite on his piebald mare.

"Well, my little girl, it's good to see you again," Mr. Linton said, putting his Gladstone bag into the buggy and receiving undismayed a small avalanche of little daughter upon his neck. "Steady, dear—mind the ponies." He jumped in, and put his arm round her. "Everything well?"

"Yes, all right, Daddy. I'm so glad to have you back!"

"Not gladder than I am to get back, my little lass," said her father. "Good-day, Billy. Let 'em go, Norah."

"Did you see Jim?" asked Norah, as the ponies bounded forward.

"No—missed him. I had only an hour in town, and went out to the school, to find Master Jim had gone down the river—rowing practice. I was sorry to miss him; but it wasn't worth waiting another day in town."

"Jim would be sorry," said Norah thoughtfully. She herself was rather glad: had Jim seen his father, most probably he would have mentioned the Hermit. Now she had only his letters to fear, and as Jim's letters were of the briefest nature and very far apart, it was not an acute danger.

"Yes, I suppose he would," Mr. Linton replied. "I regretted not having sent a telegram to say I was going to the school—it slipped my memory. I had rather a rush, you know. I suppose you've been pretty dull, my girlie?"

"Oh it was horrid after the boys went," Norah said. "I didn't know what to do with myself, and the house was terribly quiet. It was hard luck that you had to go away too."

"Yes, I was very sorry it happened so," her father said; "had we been alone together I'd have taken you with me, but we'll have the trip some other time. Did you have a good day's fishing on Saturday?"

"Yes," said Norah, flushing a little guiltily—the natural impulse to tell all about their friend the Hermit was so strong. "We had a lovely day, and caught ever so many fish—didn't get home till ever so late. The only bad part was finding you away when we got back."

"Well, I'm glad you had good luck, at any rate," Mr. Linton said. "So Anglers' Bend is keeping up its reputation, eh? We'll have to go out there, I think, Norah; what do you say about it? Would you and Billy like a three days' jaunt on fishing bent?"

"Oh, it would be glorious, Daddy! Camping out?"

"Well, of course—since we'd be away three days. In this weather it would be a very good thing to do, I think."

"You are a blessed Daddy," declared his daughter rubbing her cheek against his shoulder. "I never knew anyone with such beautiful ideas." She jigged on her seat with delight. "Oh, and, Daddy, I'll be able to put you on to such a splendid new hole for fishing!"

"Will you, indeed?" said Mr. Linton, smiling at the flushed face. "That's good, dear. But how did you discover it?"

Norah's face fell suddenly. She hesitated and looked uncomfortable.

"Oh," she said slowly; "I—we—found it out last trip."

"Well, we'll go, Norah—as soon as I can fix it up," said her father. "And now, have you heard anything about the Winfield murderer?"

"Not a thing, Daddy. Brownie thinks it's just a yarn that he was seen about here."

"Oh, I don't think so at all," Mr. Linton said. "A good many people have the idea, at any rate—of course they may be wrong. I'm afraid Brownie is rather too ready to form wild opinions on some matters. To tell the truth, I was rather worried at the reports—I don't fancy the notion of escaped gentry of that kind wandering round in the vicinity of my small daughter."

"Well, I don't think you need have worried," said Norah, laughing up at him; "but all the same, I'm not a bit sorry you did, if it brought you home a day earlier, Dad!"

"Well, it certainly did," said Mr. Linton, pulling her ear; "but I'm not sorry either. I can't stand more than a day or two in town. As for the murderer, I'm not going to waste any thought on him now that I am here. There's the gate, and here comes Billy like a whirlwind to open it."

They bowled through the gate and up the long drive, under the arching boughs of the big gum trees, that formed a natural avenue on each side. At the garden gate Mrs. Brown stood waiting, with a broad smile of welcome, and a chorus of barks testified to the arrival of sundry dogs. "It's a real home-coming," Mr. Linton said as he walked up the path, his hand on Norah's shoulder—and the little girl's answering smile needed no words. They turned the corner by the big rose bush, and came within view of the house, and suddenly Norah's smile faded. A trooper in dusty uniform stood on the doorstep.

"Why, that's a pleasant object to greet a man," Mr. Linton said, as the policeman turned and came to meet him with a civil salute. He nodded as the man came up. "Did you want me?"

"It's only about this 'ere murderer, sir," said the trooper. "Some of us is on a sort of a scent, but we haven't got fairly on to his tracks yet. I've ridden from Mulgoa to-day, and I came to ask if your people had seen anything of such a chap passing—as a swaggie or anything?"

"Not that I know of," said Mr. Linton. "What is he like?"

"Big fellow—old—plenty of white hair and beard, though, of course, they're probably cut off by this time. Very decent-looking old chap," said the trooper reflectively—"an' a good way of speakin'."

"Well, I've seen no such man," said Mr. Linton decidedly—"of course, though, I don't see all the 'travellers' who call. Perhaps Mrs. Brown can help you."

"Not me sir," said Mrs. Brown, with firmness. "There ain't been no such a person—and you may be sure there ain't none I don't see! Fact is, when I saw as 'ow the murderer was supposed to be in this districk, I made inquiries amongst the men—the white hands, that is—and none of them had seen any such man as the papers described. I reckon 'e may just as well be in any other districk as this—I s'pose the poor p'lice must say 'e's somewheres!"

She glared defiantly at the downcast trooper.

"Wish you had the job of findin' him, mum," said that individual. "Well, sir, there's no one else I could make inquiries of, is there?"

"Mrs. Brown seems to have gone the rounds," Mr. Linton said. "I really don't think there's any one else—unless my small daughter here can help you," he added laughingly.

But Norah had slipped away, foreseeing possible questioning.

The trooper smiled.

"Don't think I need worry such a small witness," he said. "No, I'll just move on, Mr. Linton. I'm beginning to think I'm on a wild-goose chase."



CHAPTER XIII. THE CIRCUS

The days went by, but no further word of the Winfield murderer came to the anxious ears of the little girl at Billabong homestead. Norah never read the papers, and could not therefore satisfy her mind by their reports; but all her inquiries were met by the same reply, "Nothing fresh." The police were still in the district—so much she knew, for she had caught glimpses of them when out riding with her father. The stern-looking men in dusty uniforms were unusual figures in those quiet parts. But Norah could not manage to discover if they had searched the scrub that hid the Hermit's simple camp; and the mystery of the Winfield murder seemed as far from being cleared up as ever.

Meanwhile there was plenty to distract her mind from such disquieting matters. The station work happened to be particularly engrossing just then, and day after day saw Norah in the saddle, close to her father's big black mare, riding over hills and plains, bringing up the slow sheep or galloping gloriously after cattle that declined to be mustered. There were visits of inspection to be made to the farthest portions of the run, and busy days in the yards, when the men worked at drafting the stock, and Norah sat perched on the high "cap" of a fence and, watching with all her eager little soul in her eyes, wished heartily that she had been born a boy. Then there were a couple of trips with Mr. Linton to outlying townships, and on one of these occasions Norah had a piece of marvellous luck, for there was actually a circus in Cunjee—a real, magnificent circus, with lions and tigers and hyaenas, and a camel, and other beautiful animals, and, best of all, a splendid elephant of meek and mild demeanour. It was the elephant that broke up Norah's calmness.

"Oh, Daddy!" she said. "Daddy! Oh, can't we stay?"

Mr. Linton laughed.

"I was expecting that," he said. "Stay? And what would Brownie be thinking?"

Norah's face fell.

"Oh," she said. "I'd forgotten Brownie. I s'pose it wouldn't do. But isn't it a glorious elephant, Daddy?"

"It is, indeed," said Mr. Linton, laughing. "I think it's too glorious to leave, girlie. Fact is, I had an inkling the circus was to be here, so I told Brownie not to expect us until she saw us. She put a basket in the buggy, with your tooth-brush, I think."

The face of his small daughter was sufficient reward.

"Daddy!" she said. "Oh, but you are the MOST Daddy!" Words failed her at that point.

Norah said that it was a most wonderful "spree." They had dinner at the hotel, where the waiter called her "Miss Linton," and in all ways behaved precisely as if she were grown up, and after dinner she and her father sat on the balcony while Mr. Linton smoked and Norah watched the population arriving to attend the circus. They came from all quarters—comfortable old farm wagons, containing whole families; a few smart buggies; but the majority came on horseback, old as well as young. The girls rode in their dresses, or else had slipped on habit skirts over their gayer attire, with great indifference as to whether it happened to be crushed, and they had huge hats, trimmed with all the colours of the rainbow. Norah did not know much about dress, but it seemed to her theirs was queer. But one and all looked so happy and excited that dress was the last thing that mattered.

It seemed to Norah a long while before Mr. Linton shook the ashes from his pipe deliberately and pulled out his watch. She was inwardly dancing with impatience.

"Half-past seven," remarked her father, shutting up his watch with a click. "Well, I suppose we'd better go, Norah. All ready, dear?"

"Yes, Daddy. Must I wear gloves?"

"Why, not that I know of," said her father, looking puzzled. "Hardly necessary, I think. I don't wear 'em. Do you want to?"

"Goodness—no!" said his daughter hastily.

"Well, that's all right," said Mr. Linton. "Stow them in my pocket and come along."

Out in the street there were unusual signs of bustle. People were hurrying along the footpath. The blare of brass instruments came from the big circus tent, round which was lingering every small boy of Cunjee who could not gain admission. Horses were tied to adjoining fences, considerably disquieted by the brazen strains of the band. It was very cheerful and inspiring, and Norah capered gently as she trotted along by her father.

Mr. Linton gave up his tickets at the first tent, and they passed in to view the menagerie—a queer collection, but wonderful enough in the eyes of Cunjee. The big elephant held pride of place, as he stood in his corner and sleepily waved his trunk at the aggravating flies. Norah loved him from the first, and in a moment was stroking his trunk, somewhat to her father's anxiety.

"I hope he's safe?" he asked an attendant.

"Bless you, yes, sir," said that worthy, resplendent in dingy scarlet uniform. "He alwuz knows if people ain't afraid of him. Try him with this, missy." "This" was an apple, and Jumbo deigned to accept it at Norah's hands, and crunched it serenely.

"He's just dear," said Norah, parting reluctantly from the huge swaying brute and giving him a final pat as she went.

"Better than Bobs?" asked her father.

"Pooh!" said Norah loftily. "What's this rum thing?"

"A wildebeest," read her father. "He doesn't look like it."

"Pretty tame beast, I think," Norah observed, surveying the stolid-looking animal before her. "Show me something really wild, Daddy."

"How about this chap?" asked Mr. Linton.

They were before the tiger's cage, and the big yellow brute was walking up and down with long stealthy strides, his great eyes roving over the curious faces in front of him. Some one poked a stick at him—an attention which met an instant roar and spring on the tiger's part, and a quick, and stinging rebuke from an attendant, before which the poker of the stick fled precipitately. The crowd, which had jumped back as one man, pressed nearer to the cage, and the tiger resumed his quick, silent prowl. But his eyes no longer roved over the faces. They remained fixed upon the man who had provoked him.

"How do you like him?" Mr. Linton asked his daughter.

Norah hesitated.

"He's not nice, of course," she said. "But I'm so awfully sorry for him, aren't you, Daddy? It does seem horrible—a great, splendid thing like that shut up for always in that little box of a cage. You feel he really ought to have a great stretch of jungle to roam in."

"And eat men in? I think he's better where he is."

"Well, you'd think the world was big enough for him to have a place apart from men altogether," said Norah, holding to her point sturdily. "Somewhere that isn't much wanted—a sandy desert, or a spare Alp! This doesn't seem right, somehow. I think I've seen enough animals, Daddy, and it's smelly here. Let's go into the circus."

The circus tent was fairly crowded as Norah and her father made their way in and took the seats reserved for them, under the direction of another official in dingy scarlet. Round the ring the tiers of seats rose abruptly, each tier a mass of eager, interested faces. A lame seller of fruit and drinks hobbled about crying his wares; at intervals came the "pop" of a lemonade bottle, and there was a steady crunching of peanut shells. The scent of orange peel rose over the circus smell—that weird compound of animal and sawdust and acetylene lamps. In the midst of all was the ring, with its surface banked up towards the outer edge.

They had hardly taken their seats when the band suddenly struck up in its perch near the entrance, and the company entered to the inspiring strains. First came the elephant, very lazy and stately—gorgeously caparisoned now, with a gaily attired "mahout" upon his neck. Behind him came the camel; and the cages with the other occupants of the menagerie, looking either bored or fierce. They circled round the ring and then filed out.

The band struck up a fresh strain and in cantered a lovely lady on a chestnut horse. She wore a scarlet hat and habit, and looked to Norah very like a Christmas card. Round the ring she dashed gaily, and behind her came another lady equally beautiful in a green habit, on a black horse; and a third, wearing a habit of pale blue plush who managed a piebald horse. Then came some girls in bright frocks, on beautiful ponies; and some boys, in tights, on other ponies; and then men, also in tights of every colour in the rainbow, who rode round with bored expressions, as if it were really too slow a thing merely to sit on a horse's back, instead of pirouetting there upon one foot. They flashed round once or twice and were gone, and Norah sat back and gasped, feeling that she had had a glimpse into another world—as indeed she had.

A little figure whirled into the ring—a tiny girl on a jet-black pony. She was sitting sideways at first, but as the pony settled into its stride round the ring she suddenly leaped to her feet and, standing poised, kissed her hands gaily to the audience. Then she capered first on one foot, then on another; she sat down, facing the tail, and lay flat along the pony's back; she assumed every position except the natural one. She leapt to the ground (to Norah's intense horror, who imagined she didn't mean to), and, running fiercely at the pony, sprang on his back again, while he galloped the harder. Lastly, she dropped a handkerchief, which she easily recovered by the simple expedient of hanging head downwards, suspended by one foot, and then galloped out of the ring, amid the frantic applause of Cunjee.

"Could you do that, Norah?" laughed Mr. Linton.

"Me?" said Norah amazedly; "me? Oh, fancy me ever thinking I could ride a bit!"

One of the lovely ladies, in a glistening suit of black, covered with spangles, next entered. She also preferred to ride standing, but was by no means idle. A gentleman in the ring obligingly handed her up many necessaries—plates and saucers and knives—and she threw these about the air, as she galloped with great apparent carelessness, yet never failed to catch each just as it seemed certain to fall. Tiring of this pursuit, she flung them all back at the gentleman with deadly aim, while he, resenting nothing, caught them cleverly, and disposed of them to a clown who stood by, open-mouthed. Then the gentleman hung bright ribbons across the ring, apparently with the unpleasant intention of sweeping the lady from her horse—an intention which she frustrated by lightly leaping over each in turn, while her horse galloped beneath it. Finally, the gentleman—whose ideas really seemed most unfriendly—suddenly confronted her with a great paper-covered hoop, the very sight of which would have made an ordinary horse shy wildly—but even at this obstacle the lady did not lose courage. Instead, she leaped straight through the hoop, paper and all, and was carried out by her faithful steed, amidst yells of applause.

Norah gasped.

"Oh, isn't it perfectly lovely, Daddy!" she said.

Perhaps you boys and girls who live in cities, or near townships where travelling companies pay yearly visits, can have no idea of what this first circus meant to this little bush maid, who had lived all her twelve years without seeing anything half so wonderful. Perhaps, too, you are lucky to have so many chances of seeing things—but it is something to possess nowadays, even at twelve, the unspoiled, fresh mind that Norah brought to her first circus.

Everything was absolutely real to her. The clown was a being almost too good for this world, seeing that his whole time was spent in making people laugh uproariously, and that he was so wonderfully unselfish in the way he allowed himself to be kicked and knocked about—always landing in positions so excruciatingly droll that you quite forgot to ask if he were hurt. All the ladies who galloped round the ring, and did such marvellous things, treating a mettled steed as though he were as motionless as a kitchen table, seemed to Norah models of beauty and grace. There was one who set her heart beating by her daring, for she not only leaped through a paper-covered hoop, but through three, one after the other, and then—marvel of marvels—through one on which the paper was alight and blazing fiercely! Norah held her breath, expecting to see her scorched and smouldering at the very least; but the heroic rider galloped on, without seeming so much as singed. Almost as wonderful was the total indifference of the horses to the strange sights around them.

"Bobs would be off his head!" said Norah.

She was especially enchanted with a small boy and girl who rode in on the same brown pony, and had all sorts of capers, as much off the pony's back as upon it. Not that it troubled them to be off, because they simply ran, together, at the pony, and landed simultaneously, standing on his back, while the gallant steed galloped the more furiously. They hung head downwards while the pony jumped over hurdles, to their great apparent danger; they even wrestled, standing, and the girl pitched the boy off to the accompaniment of loud strains from the band and wild cheers from Cunjee. Not that the boy minded—he picked himself up and raced the pony desperately round the ring—the girl standing and shrieking encouragement, the pony racing, the boy scudding in front, until he suddenly turned and bolted out of the ring, the pony following at his heels, but never quite catching him—so that the boy really won, after all, which Norah thought was quite as it should be.

Then there were the acrobats—accomplished men in tight clothes—who cut the most amazing somersaults, and seemed to regard no object as too great to be leaped over. They brought in the horses, and stood ever so many of them together, backed up by the elephant, and the leading acrobat jumped over them all without any apparent effort. After which all the horses galloped off of their own accord, and "put themselves away" without giving anyone any trouble. Then the acrobats were hauled up into the top of the tent, where they swung themselves from rope to rope, and somersaulted through space; and one man hung head downwards, and caught by the hands another who came flying through the air as if he belonged there. Once he missed the outstretched hands, and Norah gasped expecting to see him terribly hurt—instead of which he fell harmlessly into a big net thoughtfully spread for his reception, and rebounded like a tennis ball, kissing his hand gracefully to the audience, after which he again whirled through the air, and this time landed safely in the hands of the hanging man, who had all this while seemed just as comfortable head downwards as any other way. There was even a little boy who swung himself about the tent as fearlessly as the grown men, and cut capers almost as dangerous as theirs. Norah couldn't help breathing more freely when the acrobats bowed their final farewell.

Mr. Linton consulted his programme.

"They're bringing in the lion next," he said.

The band struck up the liveliest of tunes. All the ring was cleared now, except for the clown, who suddenly assumed an appearance of great solemnity. He marched to the edge of the ring and struck an attitude indicative of profound respect.

In came the elephant, lightly harnessed, and drawing a huge cage on wheels. On other sides marched attendants in special uniforms, and on the elephant's back stood the lion tamer, all glorious in scarlet and gold, so that he was almost hurtful to the eye. In the cage three lions paced ceaselessly up and down. The band blared. The people clapped. The clown bowed his forehead into the dust and said feelingly, "Wow!"

Beside the ring was another, more like a huge iron safe than a ring, as it was completely walled and roofed with iron bars. The cage was drawn up close beside this, and the doors slid back. The lions needed no further invitation. They gave smothered growls as they leaped from their close quarters into this larger breathing space. Then another door was opened stealthily, and the lion tamer slipped in, armed with no weapon more deadly than a heavy whip.

Norah did not like it. It seemed to her, to put it mildly, a risky proceeding. Generally speaking, Norah was by no means a careful soul, and had no opinion of people who thought over much about looking after their skins; but this business of lions was not exactly what she had been used to. They appeared to her so hungry, and so remarkably ill tempered; and the man was as one to three, and had, apparently, no advantage in the matter of teeth and claws.

"Don't like this game," said the bush maiden, frowning. "Is he safe, Daddy?"

"Oh, he's all right," her father answered, smiling. "These chaps know how to take care of themselves; and the lions know he's master. Watch them Norah."

Norah was already doing that. The lions prowling round the ring, keeping wary eyes on their tamer, were called to duty by a sharp crack of the whip. Growling, they took their respective stations—two on the seats of chairs, the third standing between them, poised on the two chair backs. Then they were put through a quick succession of tricks. They jumped over chairs and ropes and each other; they raced round the ring, taking hurdles at intervals; they balanced on big wooden balls, and pushed them along by quick changes of position. Then they leaped through hoops, ornamented with fluttering strips of paper, and clearly did not care for the exercise. And all the while their stealthy eyes never left those of the tamer.

"How do you like it?" asked Mr. Linton.

"It's beastly!" said Norah, with surprising suddenness. "I hate it, Daddy. Such big, beautiful things, and to make them do silly tricks like these; just as you'd train a kitten!"

"Well, they're nothing more than big cats," laughed her father.

"I don't care. It's—it's mean, I think. I don't wonder they're cross. And you can see they are, Daddy. If I was a lion I know I'd want to bite somebody!"

The lions certainly did seem cross. They growled constantly, and were slow to obey orders. The whip was always cracking, and once or twice a big lioness, who was especially sulky, received a sharp cut. The outside attendants kept close to the cage, armed with long iron bars. Norah thought, watching them, that they were somewhat uneasy. For herself, she knew she would be very glad when the lion "turn" was over.

The smaller tricks were finished, and the tamer made ready for the grand "chariot act." He dragged forward an iron chariot and to it harnessed the smaller lions with stout straps, coupling the reins to a hook on the front of the little vehicle. Then he signalled to the lioness to take her place as driver.

The lioness did not move. She crouched down, watching him with hungry, savage eyes. The trainer took a step forward, raising his whip.

"You—Queen!" he said sharply.

She growled, not stirring. A sudden movement of the lions behind him made the trainer glance round quickly.

There was a roar, and a yellow streak cleft the air. A child's voice screamed. The tamer's spring aside was too late, He went down on his face, the lioness upon him.

Norah's cry rang out over the circus, just as the lioness sprang—too late for the trainer, however. The girl was on her feet, clutching her father.

"Oh, Daddy—Daddy!" she said.

All was wildest confusion. Men were shouting, women screaming—two girls fainted, slipping down, motionless, unnoticed heaps, from their seats. Circus men yelled contradictory orders. Within the ring the lioness crouched over the fallen man, her angry eyes roving about the disordered tent.

The two lions in the chariot were making furious attempts to break away. Luckily their harness was strong, and they were so close to the edge of the ring that the attendants were able, with their iron bars, to keep them in check. After a few blows they settled down, growling, but subdued.

But to rescue the trainer was not so easy a matter. He lay in the very centre of the ring, beyond the reach of any weapons; and not a man would venture within the great cage. The attendants shouted at the lioness, brandished irons, cracked whips. She heard them unmoved. Once she shifted her position slightly and a moan came from the man underneath.

"This is awful," Mr. Linton said. He left his seat in the front row and went across the ring to the group of white-faced men. "Can't you shoot the brute?" he asked.

"We'd do it in a minute," the proprietor answered. "But who'd shoot and take the chance of hitting Joe? Look at the way they are—it's ten to one he'd get hit." He shook his head. "Well, I guess it's up to me to go in and tackle her—I'd get a better shot inside the ring." He moved forward.

A white-faced woman flung herself upon him and clung to him desperately. Norah hardly recognised her as the gay lady who had so merrily jumped through the burning hoops a little while ago. "You shan't go, Dave!" she cried, sobbing. "You mustn't! Think of the kiddies! Joe hasn't got a wife and little uns."

The circus proprietor tried to loosen her hold. "I've got to, my girl," he said gently. "I can't leave a man o' mine to that brute. It's my fault—I orter known better than to let him take her from them cubs to-night. Let go, dear." He tried to unclinch her hands from his coat.

"Has she—the lioness—got little cubs?"

It was Norah's voice, and Mr. Linton started to find her at his side. Norah, very pale and shaky, with wide eyes, glowing with a great idea.

The circus man nodded. "Two."

"Wouldn't she—" Norah's voice was trembling almost beyond the power of speech—"wouldn't she go to them if you showed them to her—put them in the small cage? My—old cat would!"

"By the powers!" said the proprietor. "Fetch 'em, Dick—run." The clown ran, his grotesque draperies contrasting oddly enough with his errand.

In an instant he was back, two fluffy yellow heaps in his arms. One whined as they drew near the cage, and the lioness looked up sharply with a growl. The clown held the cubs in her view, and she growled again, evidently uneasy. Beneath her the man was quiet now.

"The cage—quick?"

The big lion cage, its open door communicating with the ring, stood ready. The clown opened another door and slipped in the protesting cubs. They made for the further door, but were checked by the stout cords fastened to their collars. He held them in leash, in full view of the lioness. She growled and moved, but did not leave her prey.

"Make 'em sing out!" the woman said sharply. Someone handed the clown an iron rod sharpened at one end. He passed it through the bars, and prodded a cub on the foot. It whined angrily, and a quick growl came from the ring.

"Harder, Dick!"

The clown obeyed. There was a sharp, amazed yelp of pain from the cub, and an answering roar from the mother. Another protesting cry—and then again that yellow streak as the lioness left her prey and sprang to her baby, with a deafening roar. The clown tugged the cubs sharply back into the recesses of the cage as the mother hurled herself through the narrow opening. Behind her the bars rattled into place and she was restored to captivity.

It was the work of only a moment to rush into the ring, where the tamer lay huddled and motionless. Kind hands lifted him and carried him away beyond the performance tent, with its eager spectators. The attendants quickly unharnessed the two tame lions, and they were removed in another cage, brought in by the elephant for their benefit.

Norah slipped a hot, trembling hand into her father's.

"Let's go, Daddy—I've had enough."

"More than enough, I think," said Mr. Linton. "Come on, little girl."

They slipped out in the wake of the anxious procession that carried the tamer. As they went, a performing goat and monkey passed them on their way to the ring, and the clown capered behind them. They heard his cheerful shout, "Here we are again!" and the laughter of the crowd as the show was resumed.

"Plucky chap, that clown," Mr. Linton said.

In the fresh air the men had laid the tamer down gently, and a doctor was bending over him examining him by the flickering light of torches held by hands that found it hard to be steady.

"Not so much damaged as he might be," the doctor announced, rising. "That shoulder will take a bit of healing, but he looks healthy. His padded uniform has saved his life. Let's get him to the private hospital up the street. Everything necessary is there, and I'd like to have his shoulder dressed before he regains consciousness."

The men lifted the improvised stretcher again, and passed on with it. Norah and her father were following, when a voice called them. The wife of the circus proprietor ran after them—a strange figure enough, in her scarlet riding dress, the paint on her face streaked with tear marks.

"I'd like to know who you are," she said, catching Norah's hand. "But for you my man 'ud 'a been in the ring with that brute. None of us had the sense to think o' bringin' in the cubs. Tell me your name, dearie."

Norah told her unwillingly. "Nothing to make a fuss over," she added, in great confusion.

"I guess you saved Joe's life, an' perhaps my Dave's as well," the woman said. "We won't forget you. Good night, sir, an' thank you both."

Norah had no wish to be thanked, being of opinion that she had done less than nothing at all. She was feeling rather sick, and—amazing feeling for Norah—inclined to cry. She was very glad to get into bed at the hotel, and eagerly welcomed her father's suggestion that he should sit for a while in her room. Norah did not know that it was dawn before Mr. Linton left his watch by the restless sleeper, quiet now, and sought his own couch.

She woke late, from a dream of lions and elephants, and men who moaned softly. Her father was by her bedside.

"Breakfast, lazy bones," he said.

"How's the tamer?" queried Norah, sitting up.

"Getting on all right. He wants to see you."

"Me!" said Norah. "Whatever for?"

"We've got to find that out," said her father, withdrawing.

They found out after breakfast, when a grateful, white-faced man, swathed in bandages, stammered broken thanks.

"For it was you callin' out that saved me first," he said. "I'd never 'a thought to jump, but I heard you sing out to me, an' if I hadn't she'd a broke my neck, sure. An' then it was you thought o' bringing in the cubs. Well, missy, I won't forget you long's I live."

The nurse, at his nod, brought out the skin of a young tiger, beautifully marked and made into a rug.

"If you wouldn't mind takin' that from me," explained the tamer. "I'd like to feel you had it, an' I'd like to shake hands with you, missy."

Outside the room Norah turned a flushed face to her father.

"Do let's go home, Daddy," she begged. "Cunjee's too embarrassing for me!"



CHAPTER XIV. CAMPING OUT

"About that fishing excursion, Norah?"

"Yes, Daddy." A small brown paw slid itself into Mr. Linton's hand.

They were sitting on the verandah in the stillness of an autumn evening, watching the shadows on the lawn become vague and indistinct, and finally merge into one haze of dusk. Mr. Linton had been silent for a long time. Norah always knew when her father wanted to talk. This evening she was content to be silent, too, leaning against his knee in her own friendly fashion as she curled up at his feet.

"Oh, you hadn't forgotten, then?"

"Well—not much! Only I didn't know if you really wanted to go, Daddy."

"Why, yes," said her father. "I think it would be rather a good idea, my girlie. There's not much doing on the place just now. I could easily be spared. And we don't want to leave our trip until the days grow shorter. The moon will be right, too. It will be full in four or five days—I forget the exact date. So, altogether, Norah, I think we'd better consult Brownie about the commissariat department, and make our arrangements to go immediately."

"It'll be simply lovely," said his daughter, breathing a long sigh of delight. "Such a long time since we had a camping out—just you and me, Daddy."

"Yes, it's a good while. Well, we've got to make up for lost time by catching plenty of fish," said Mr. Linton. "I hope you haven't forgotten the whereabouts of that fine new hole of yours? You'll have to take me to it if Anglers' Bend doesn't come up to expectations."

A deep flush came into Norah's face. For a little while she had almost forgotten the Hermit—or, rather, he had ceased to occupy a prominent position in her mind, since the talk of the Winfield murder had begun to die away. The troopers, unsuccessful in their quest, had gone back to headquarters, and Norah had breathed more freely, knowing that her friend had escaped—this time. Still, she never felt comfortable in her mind about him. Never before had she kept any secret from her father, and the fact of this concealment was apt to come home closely to her at times and cloud the perfect friendship between them.

"Master Billy will be delighted, I expect," went on Mr. Linton, not noticing the little girl's silence. "Anything out of the ordinary groove of civilisation is a joy to that primitive young man. I don't fancy it would take much to make a cheerful savage of Billy."

"Can't you fancy him!" said Norah, making an effort to break away from her own thoughts; "roaming the bush with a boomerang and a waddy, and dressed in strips of white paint."