W. H. OGILVIE.
Jim had not wanted to tell Norah. It had been Brownie who had
counselled differently.
"I think she's got enough to bear," the boy had said, sitting on the
edge of the kitchen table, and flicking his boots mechanically with his
whip. He had been riding hard almost all day, but anxiety, not fatigue,
had put the lines into his face. "What's the good of giving her any
more?"
"I do believe it'd be best for her, the poor lamb!" Brownie had said.
"She's there all day, not speaking--it'll wear her out. An' you know,
Master Jim, dear, she'd never forgive us for keepin' anything back from
her about the master."
"No--but we've nothing definite. And it may make her really ill, coming
on top of the other."
"I don't think Miss Norah's the sort to let herself get ill when there
was need of her. It may take her poor mind off the other--she can't help
that now, an' he was only a pony--"
"Only a pony! By George, Brownie--!"
"Any horse is only a pony when compared to your Pa," said Brownie,
unconscious of anything peculiar in her remark. "I don't know that real
anxiety mayn't help her, Master Jim. And any'ow, it don't seem to me
we've the right to keep it from her, them bein', as it were, that
partickler much to each other. Take my tip, an' you tell her.
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