There was
something protective in Norah's nature that responded instantly to the
lonely position of the girl who was going across the world to a strange
country. Both were motherless, but in Norah's case the blank was
softened by a father who had striven throughout his children's lives to
be father and mother alike to them, while Cecilia had only the bitter
memory of the man who had shirked his duty until he had become less than
a stranger to her. If any pang smote her heart at the sight of Norah's
worshipping love for the tall grey "dad" for whom she was the very
centre of existence, Cecilia did not show it. The Lintons had taken them
into their little circle at once--more, perhaps, by reason of Cecilia's
extraordinary introduction to them than through General Harran's
letter--and Bob and his sister were already grateful for their
friendship. They were a quiet quartet, devoted to each other in their
undemonstrative fashion; Norah was on a kind of boyish footing with Jim,
the huge silent brother who was a major, with three medal ribbons to
his credit, and with Wally Meadows, his inseparable chum, who had been
almost brought up with the brother and sister.
"They were always such bricks to me, even when I was a little scrap of a
thing," she had told Cecilia. "They never said I was 'only a girl,' and
kept me out of things. So I grew up more than three parts a boy.
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