The sleepy river murmurs low,
And far away one dimly sees,
Beyond the stretch of forest trees,
Beyond the foothills dusk and dun,
The ranges sleeping in the sun.
A. B. Paterson.

Autumn was late that year at Billabong, and the orchard trees were still green, though a yellow leaf showed here and there in the Virginia creeper, as David Linton lay on the verandah and looked out over the garden. From his couch he could see the paddock beyond, and here and there the roan hides of some of his Shorthorns. They did not generally graze there; but Jim had brought some into the paddock the day before, remarking that he was certain his father would recover much more quickly if he could see a bullock now and then. So they grazed, and lay about in the yellow grass, and David Linton watched them contentedly.

From time to time Mrs. Brown’s comfortable face peeped out from door or window, with an inquiry as to her master’s needs; but he was not an exacting patient, and usually met her with a smile and “Nothing, Brownie, thanks don’t trouble about me.” Lee Wing came along, shouldering a great coil of rubber hose like an immense grey snake, and stopped for a cheerful conversation in his picturesque English; and Billy, arriving from some remote corner of the run, left his horse at the gate and came up to the verandah, standing a black statue in shirt, moleskins and leggings, his stockwhip over his arm, while Mr. Linton asked questions about the cattle he had been to see. Afterwards Mrs. Brown brought out tea, having met and routed with great slaughter Sarah, who was anxious to have the honour that up to to-day had been Norah’s alone.

“It’s dull for you, sir,” she said. “No mistake, it do make a difference when that child’s not in the house!”

“No doubt of that,” Mr. Linton said. “But I’m getting on very well, Brownie, although I certainly miss my nurses.”

“Oh, we can make you comferable an’ all that,” Brownie said, disparagingly. “But when it comes to a mate, we all know there ain’t any one for you like Miss Norah though I do say Master Jim’s as handy in a sick-room as that high-flown nurse from Melbourne ever was I’m glad to me bones she’s gone!” said Brownie, in pious relief.

“So am I,” agreed the squatter hastily. “Afraid I don’t take kindly to the imported article and I’m perfectly certain Norah and she nearly came to blows many times.”

“An’ small wonder,” said Brownie, her nose uplifted. “Keepin’ her out of your room, if you please or tryin’ to till Miss Norah heard you callin’ her, an’ simply came in at the winder! An’ callin’ her ’ducksy bird.’ I ask you, sir,” said Brownie, indignantly, “is ‘ducksy bird’ the thing anybody with sense’d be likely to call Miss Norah?”

“Poor Norah!” said Mr. Linton, laughing. “She didn’t tell me of that indignity.”

“Many a trile Miss Norah had with that nurse as I’ll dare be sworn, she’d never menshin to you, sir,” Brownie answered. “She wouldn’t let a breath of anything get near you that’d worry you. Why, it was three weeks and more before she’d let you be told about Bobs!”

David Linton’s brow darkened.

“I couldn’t have done any good, of course,” he said. “But I’m sorry I couldn’t have helped her at all over that bad business. Well, I hope Providence will keep that young man out of my path in future!”

“An’ out of Billabong,” said Brownie with fervour. “Mr. Cecil’s safer away. I guess even now he’d have a rough time if the men caught him an’ serve him right!”

“He seems penitent,” Mr. Linton said, “and even his mother wrote about him more in sorrow than in anger. The atmosphere of admiration in which he has always lived seems to have cooled, which should be an uncommonly good thing for Cecil. But I don’t want to see him.”

“Nor more don’t any of us,” Brownie said, wrathfully. “Billabong had enough of Mr. Cecil. Dear sakes! when I think of him clearin’ away from Miss Norah that night, an’ what might have ’appened but for that blessed ’eathen, Lal Chunder, I don’t feel ’ardly Christian, that I don’t! Not as she ever made much of it but poor little lamb!”

Mr. Linton’s face contracted, and Brownie left the topic hastily. It always agitated the invalid, who had indeed only been told of Norah’s night adventure because of the risk of his hearing of it suddenly from outsiders or a newspaper. The district had seethed over the child’s peril, and Lal Chunder had found himself in the embarrassing position of a hero which by no means suited that usually mild-mannered Asiatic. He had developed a habit of paying Billabong frequent, if fleeting, calls; apparently for the sole purpose of looking at Norah, for he rarely spoke. There was no guest more welcome.

Presently Murty O’Toole and Dave Boone came round the corner of the verandah.

“Masther Jim gev special insthructions not to be later’n half-past four in takin’ y’ in, sir,” said the Irishman. “The chill do be comin’ in the air afther that, says he. An’ Miss Norah towld me to be stern wid ye!”

“Oh, did she?” said Norah’s father, laughing. “Well, I suppose I’d better be meek, Murty, if the orders are so strict though it’s warm enough out here still.”

“The cowld creeps up from thim flats,” Murty said, judicially. “An’ whin y’ are takin’ things aisy well, y’ are apt to take a cowld aisy as well.”

“I’m certainly taking things far too easy for my taste,” Mr. Linton said, smiling ruefully. “Five weeks on my back, Murty! and goodness knows how much ahead. It doesn’t suit me.”

“I will admit there’s some on the station ’twould suit betther,” Murty answered. “Dave here, now sure, he shines best whin he’s on his back! an’ I can do a bit av that same meself. ("You can that!” from the outraged Mr. Boone.) But y’ had the drawback to be born widout a lazy bone in y’r body, so ‘tis a hardship on y’. There is but wan thing that’s good in it, as far as th’ station sees.”

“What’s that, Murty?”

“Mrs. Brown here do be tellin’ me Miss Norah’s not to go away an’ there’s not a man on the place but slung up his hat!” said the Irishman. “Billabong wouldn’t be the same at all widout the little misthress we had a grudge agin that foine school in Melbourne, so we had. However, it’s all right now.” He beamed on his master.

“Only a postponement, I’m afraid, Murty,” said that gentleman, who beamed himself, quite unconsciously.

“Yerra, it’s no good lookin’ ahead time enough to jump over the bridge when y’ come to it,” said Murty, cheerfully. “Annyhow, she’ll not be lavin’ on us yit. Well, if y’ are ready, sir?” He nodded to Boone and took up his position at the head of Mr. Linton’s couch.

“I’ll go into the dining-room,” the squatter said, as they carried him gently into the hall. “Put me near the window, boys no, the one looking down the track. That’s all right,” as his couch came to anchor in the bay of a window that gave a clear view of the homestead paddock. He chatted to them awhile longer before wishing them good-night.

The stockmen tramped out, making violent efforts to be noiseless.

“Whisht, can’t y’?” said Murty, indignantly, as Dave cannoned into a chair in the hall. “Have y’ not got anny manners at all, thin, Davy? wid’ him lyin’ there, an’ good luck to him! Did y’ see how he made us put his sofy in that square little winder?”

“Why?” asked the slower Mr. Boone.

“An’ what but to see the first glimpse av them kids comin’ home? Y’ do be an ass, Davy!” said Murty, pleasantly. “Begob, ‘tis somethin’ f’r a man’s eyes to see how Miss Norah handles that bay horse!”

Left to himself, David Linton made a pretence at reading a paper, but his eyes were weary, and presently the sheet crackled to the floor, and lay unheeded. Brownie, coming in softly, thought he had fallen asleep, and tiptoed to the couch with a light rug, which she drew over him. They handled him very carefully; although his clean, hard life had helped him to make a wonderful recovery, his injuries had been severe; and it would be many weeks yet before he could use his leg, even with crutches. The trained nurse from Melbourne, who had been more or less a necessary evil, or, as Jim put it, “an evil necessary,” had been dispensed with a week before; and now he had as many attendants as there were inhabitants of Billabong, with Norah as head nurse and Brownie as superintendent, and Jim as right-hand man. Once there had been a plan that Jim should go North, for other experience, after leaving school. But it was never talked of now.

This was the first day, since they had brought her father home, that Norah had been induced to leave him; and then it had taken a command on his part to make her go. She was growing pale and hollow-eyed with the long watching.

Dr. Anderson, whose visits were becoming rarer, had prescribed a tonic, which Norah had taken meekly, and without apparent results.

“The tonic she wants is her own old life,” Brownie had said. “Stickin’ inside the house all day! it’s no wonder she’s peakin’ and pinin’. Make her go out, sir.” So David Linton had asserted himself from his couch; and Jim had taken Norah for a ride over the paddocks, and to call for the mail at the Cross Roads, where the Billabong loose bag was left by the coach three times a week.

He was lying with his eyes fixed on the track when they came out of the trees; both horses at a hand gallop and pulling double. Norah was on Garryowen, her face flushed and laughing, her head thrown back a little as the beautiful bay reefed and plunged forward, enjoying the speed as much as his rider. Jim was a length or so behind on Monarch, whose one ambition at that moment was, in Murty’s words, “to get away on him.” It was plain that the boy was exulting in the tussle. The sunlight gleamed on the black horse’s splendid side as they dashed up the track.

As yet there had been no talk openly of a successor to Bobs that wound was still too sore. For the present Norah was to ride Garryowen, since Monarch was far too frivolous to stand a long spell; Jim would handle him for the months that must elapse before his father was in the saddle again. Later on, Jim and Mr. Linton had great plans for something very special a new pony that would not disgrace Bobs’ memory, and that would fit the unused rug with the scarlet B that lay locked away in Norah’s wardrobe. Other things were locked away in her heart; she never spoke of Bobs. But the two who were her mates knew.

The swift hoofs came thudding up the track and scattered the gravel by the gate; then there was silence for a moment, voices and laughter, and quick footsteps, and Jim and Norah came in together, their faces glowing.

“How did you get on, Dad? Were we long?”

“Long!” said David Linton, whose face had grown suddenly contented. “The conceit of some people! Why, I had so much attention paid me that I scarcely noticed you had gone.” He put up one hand and took Norah’s as she sat on the arm of his couch. “But I’m glad you’re back,” he added. They smiled at each other.

“Conceit’s bad enough,” said Jim, grinning, “but insanity’s worse. Had the maddest ride of my life, Dad my poor old Garryowen’s absolutely cowed, and has no tail left to speak of!” He ducked to avoid a cushion from his sister. “It’s a most disastrous experiment to keep Norah off a horse for five weeks!”

“We won’t repeat it,” said her father, “not that Garryowen seemed to be suffering from nervous prostration as he came up the paddock or Monarch either! Any letters?”

“One from Wally,” Norah cried, “poor old boy. He says school is horrid without Jim, and he’s collar-proud, and they lost the match last Saturday he carried out his bat for thirty-seven, though! and he misses Billabong, and he sends his love and all sorts of messages to you, Dad. I guess Brownie and I will fix up a hamper for him,” concluded Norah, pensively, weighing in her mind the attractions of plum or seed cake, and deciding on both. “And mice pies,” she added, aloud.

“What?” said her father, staring. “Oh, I see. Any other mail?”

“Oh, the usual pile for you, Dad. Agents’ letters and bills and things. Jim has them. We didn’t bring the papers.”

“I should think not!” returned her father. “If I catch either of you carrying loose papers on those horses well, one broken leg is enough in a family of this size!”

“Too much respect for Monarch, to say nothing of my legs,” said Jim, laconically, producing a handful of letters. “There you are, Dad; that’s all. Do you want anything? I’m going down to the little paddock for a lesson in bullock driving from Burton.”

“How are you getting on in the art?” asked his father, smiling.

“Oh, slowly. My command of language doesn’t seem to be sufficient, for so far the team looks on me with mild scorn.” Jim grinned. “It’s nervous work for Joe, too. I got him with the tail of the whip yesterday, when I’d every intention of correcting old Ranger! However, I plod on, and Joe keeps well out of the way now. He yells instructions at me from some way back in the landscape!”

“Prudent man, Burton,” laughed his father. “A good tutor, too. I don’t know that I ever saw a man handle bullocks better. Most people don’t credit bullocks with souls, but I think Joe gets nearer to finding that attribute in his beasts than the average driver, and with less expenditure of energy and eloquence! He’s like the man we were reading about, North:

“As to a team, over gully and hill,
He can travel with twelve on the breadth of a quill!”

“Oh, could he?” asked Jim, with much interest. “Well, the width of the paddock doesn’t seem more than enough for me, so far. We wobble magnificently, the team and I! However, I keep hoping! I’d better be going. Sure you don’t want me, Dad?”

“Not just now, old chap.”

“Well, I’ll be back before long.” He smiled at his father and Norah, swinging out over the window ledge, and whistling cheerily until his long legs had carried him out of sight.

“He’ll be a good man on the place, Norah.”

“Why, of course,” said Norah, a little surprised that statement should be made of so evident a fact. “Murty says he’s ‘takin’ howld wid’ both hands, an’ ‘tis the ould man over agin,’ though it’s like Murty’s cheek to call you that. You won’t be able to let him go away, I believe, Dad.”

“I don’t see myself sparing him to any other place now,” said Mr. Linton. “Nor the head nurse either!”

Norah slipped down beside him.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, a little anxiously. “It’s been so lovely to think of no old school until midwinter but I’d go sooner when you’re quite well if you’re worried really, Dad. I don’t want to be a duffer and of course I don’t know half that other girls know.”

“Jim will be able to keep you from going back, I expect,” her father said, watching the troubled face. “He won’t be exactly a stern tutor, and possibly lessons may be free and easy; still, after all, Jim was a prefect, and the handling of unruly subjects is probably not unknown to him.”

“If Jim attempts to be a prefect with me,” said Norah, “things will be mixed!” She laughed, but the line came back into her forehead. “It’s not the lessons I was thinking of, Dad.”

“Then what is it?”

“Oh, all the other things I don’t know that other girls do. Do you think it really matters, Dad? I know perfectly well I don’t do my hair properly ”

“I seem to like it.”

“And I can’t talk prettily you know, like Cecil did; and I don’t know a single blessed thing about fancywork! I’d I’d hate you to be ashamed of me, Dad, dear!”

“Ashamed?” He held her close; and when he spoke again there was something in his voice that made Norah suddenly content.

“Little mate!” was all he said.