a word to Ellen, don't you fear," said Bunting abstractedly.

His mind had wandered off, away from Daisy and this nice young chap,
to his now constant anxious preoccupation. "You come along
to-morrow," he said, "and I'll see you gets your walk with Daisy.
It's only right you and she should have a chance of seeing one
another without old folk being by; else how's the girl to tell
whether she likes you or not! For the matter of that, you hardly
knows her, Joe--" He looked at the young man consideringly.

Chandler shook his head impatiently. "I knows her quite as well as
I wants to know her," he said. "I made up my mind the very first
time I see'd her, Mr. Bunting."

"No! Did you really?" said Bunting. "Well, come to think of it,
I did so with her mother; aye, and years after, with Ellen, too.
But I hope you'll never want no second, Chandler."

"God forbid!" said the young man under his breath. And then he
asked, rather longingly, "D'you think they'll be out long now, Mr.
Bunting?"

And Bunting woke up to a due sense of hospitality. "Sit down, sit
down; do!" he said hastily. "I don't believe they'll be very long.
They've only got a little bit of shopping to do."

And then, in a changed, in a ringing, nervous tone, he asked, "And
how about your job, Joe? Nothing new, I take it? I suppose you're
all just waiting for the next time?"

"Aye--that's about the figure of it." Chandler's voice had also
changed; it was now sombre, menacing. "We're fair tired of it--
beginning to wonder when it'll end, that we are!"

"Do you ever try and make to yourself a picture of what the master's
like?" asked Bunting. Somehow, he felt he must ask that.

"Yes," said Joe slowly. "I've a sort of notion--a savage,
fierce-looking devil, the chap must be. It's that description that
was circulated put us wrong. I don't believe it was the man that
knocked up against that woman in the fog--no, not one bit I don't.
But I wavers, I can't quite make up my mind. Sometimes I think it's
a sailor--the foreigner they talks about, that goes away for eight
or nine days in between, to Holland maybe, or to France. Then,
again, I says to myself that it's a butcher, a man from the Central
Market. Whoever it is, it's someone used to killing, that's flat."

"Then it don't seem to you possible--?" (Bunting got up and walked
over to the window.) "You don't take any stock, I suppose, in that
idea some of the papers put out, that the man is"--then he
hesitated