Then he gave way suddenly.
"No," he said, hoarsely, "I don't; I don't believe we ever will!" He
put his head down on the saddle and sobbed terribly--dry, hard sobs that
came from the bottom of his big heart. And Norah had no word of
comfort. She sat still on Sirdar, staring in front of her.
Presently Jim stood up and climbed into the saddle, and the impatient
horses moved off quickly towards home, Tait jogging at their heels.
Once Jim turned towards his sister, saying, "Are you quite knocked up,
old girl?" Norah only shook her head--she did not know that she was
tired. Neither spoke again.
It was perhaps a mile further on that Norah pulled up sharply, and
whistled to Tait. The collie had slipped off into the undergrowth--she
could hear him moving on dry sticks that crackled beneath him. He
whined a little, but did not come.
"Don't wait," Jim said. "He'll catch us up in a minute."
"He always comes if I whistle," Norah answered, her brow puckering. "I
don't understand. Wait a moment, Jim." She had slid off her pony and
followed Tait almost before Jim realized that she was gone.
The dog was nosing along a big log, the ruff on his neck bristling. As
Norah saw him he leaped upon it, and down on the other side. Then she
heard him bark sharply, and flung herself over the log after him.
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