From where he stood in the hall the father and daughter made a pleasant little picture of contented domesticity. Joe Chandler's honest heart swelled at the sight.
Daisy, wearing the blue-and-white check silk dress about which her stepmother and she had had words, sat on a low stool on the left side of the fire, while Bunting, leaning back in his own comfortable arm-chair, was listening, his hand to his ear, in an attitude—as it was the first time she had caught him doing it, the fact brought a pang to Mrs. Bunting—which showed that age was beginning to creep over the listener.
One of Daisy’s duties as companion to her great-aunt was that of reading the newspaper aloud, and she prided herself on her accomplishment.
Just as Joe had put his finger on his lip Daisy had been asking, "Shall I read this, father?" And Bunting had answered quickly, "Aye, do, my dear."
He was absorbed in what he was hearing, and, on seeing Joe at the door, he had only just nodded his head. The young man was becoming so frequent a visitor as to be almost one of themselves.
Daisy read out:
"The Avenger: A"
And then she stopped short, for the next word puzzled her greatly. Bravely, however, she went on. "A the-o-ry."
"Go in—do!" whispered Mrs. Bunting to her visitor. "Why should we stay out here in the cold? It’s ridic'lous."
"I don’t want to interrupt Miss Daisy," whispered Chandler back, rather hoarsely.
"Well, you’ll hear it all the better in the room. Don’t
