"Didn’t I? Well, I expect they’ll be in to dinner."
"I wonder, how long that old aunt of hers expects us to keep her?" said Mrs. Bunting thoughtfully.
All the cheer died out of Bunting’s round face. He became sullen and angry. It would be a pretty thing if he couldn’t have his own daughter for a bit—especially now that they were doing so well!
"Daisy’ll stay here just as long as she can," he said shortly. "It’s too bad of you, Ellen, to talk like that! She helps you all she can; and she brisks us both up ever so much. Besides, ’twould be cruel—cruel to take the girl away just now, just as she and that young chap are making friends-like. One would suppose that even you would see the justice o’ that!"
But Mrs. Bunting made no answer.
Bunting went off, back into the sitting-room. The water was boiling now, so he made the tea; and then, as he brought the little tray in, his heart softened. Ellen did look really ill—ill and wizened. He wondered if she had a pain about which she wasn’t saying anything. She had never been one to grouse about herself.
"The lodger and me came in together last night," he observed genially. "He’s certainly a funny kind of gentleman. It wasn’t the sort of night one would have chosen to go out for a walk, now was it? And yet he must ’a been out a long time if what he said was true."
"I don’t wonder a quiet gentleman like Mr. Sleuth hates the crowded streets," she said slowly. "They gets worse every day—that they do! But go along now; I want to get up."
He went back into their sitting-room, and, having laid
