The track
ran near the fence, and turned in at a big white gate glistening with
new paint. It stood wide open, and beside it was a man on a splendid bay
horse.
"There's Murty, and he's on Garryowen," spoke Jim quickly. "The old
brick!"
"I guess if anyone else had wanted to open the gate for you to-day, he'd
have had to fight Murty for the job," said Evans. "And Garryowen's been
groomed till he turns pale at the sight of a brush, Great horse he's
made, Mr. Jim."
"He's all that," said his owner, leaning out to view him better, with
his eyes shining. He raised his voice in a shout as they swung in
through the gateway. "Good for you, Murty! Hurroo!"
"Hurroo for ye all!" said Murty, and found to his amazement that his
voice was shaky. "Ah, don't shtop, sir, they're all waitin' on ye. I'll
be up as soon as ye."
Norah had tried to speak, and had found that she had no voice at all.
She could only smile at him, tremulously--and be sure the Irishman did
not fail to catch the smile. Then, as they dashed up the paddock, her
hand sought for her father's knee under the rug, in the little gesture
that had been hers from babyhood. The track curved round a grove of
great pines, and suddenly they were within sight of Billabong homestead,
red-walled and red-roofed, nestled in the deep green of its trees.
"By Jove!" said Jim, under his breath. "I thought once I'd never see the
old place again.
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