ut in
such weather; 'tis a wonder to me how that young fellow, Joe Chandler,
can stand the life--being out in all weathers like he is."

Bunting spoke at random, his one anxiety being to get away from what
was in the paper, which now lay, neglected, on the table.

"Those that keep out o' doors all day never do come to no harm,"
said his wife testily. "But if you felt so bad, whatever was you
out so long for, Bunting? I thought you'd gone away somewhere!
D'you mean you only went to get the paper?"

"I just stopped for a second to look at it under the lamp," he
muttered apologetically.

"That was a silly thing to do!"

"Perhaps it was," he admitted meekly.

Daisy had taken up the paper. "Well, they don't say much," she
said disappointedly. "Hardly anything at all! But perhaps Mr.
Chandler 'll be in soon again. If so, he'll tell us more about it."

"A young girl like you oughtn't to want to know anything about
murders," said her stepmother severely. "Joe won't think any the
better of you for your inquisitiveness about such things. If I
was you, Daisy, I shouldn't say nothing about it if he does come in
--which I fair tell you I hope he won't. I've seen enough of that
young chap to-day."

"He didn't come in for long--not to-day," said Daisy, her lip
trembling.

"I can tell you one thing that'll surprise you, my dear"--Mrs.
Bunting looked significantly at her stepdaughter. She also wanted
to get away from that dread news--which yet was no news.

"Yes?" said Daisy, rather defiantly. "What is it, Ellen?"

"Maybe you'll be surprised to hear that Joe did come in this morning.
He knew all about that affair then, but he particular asked that
you shouldn't be told anything about it."

"Never!" cried Daisy, much mortified.

"Yes," went on her stepmother ruthlessly. "You just ask your father
over there if it isn't true."

"'Tain't a healthy thing to speak overmuch about such happenings,"
said Bunting heavily.

"If I was Joe," went on Mrs. Bunting, quickly pursuing her advantage,
"I shouldn't want to talk about such horrid things when I comes in
to have a quiet chat with friends. But the minute he comes in that
poor young chap is set upon--mostly, I admit, by your father," she
looked at her husband severely. "But you does your share, too,
Daisy! You asks him this, you asks him that--he's fair puzzled
sometimes. It don't do to be so inquisitive."

******

And perhaps because of this little sermon on Mrs. Bunting