People are noticing you, Ellen. Don't run."

He spoke breathlessly, but it was breathlessness induced by fear
and by excitement, not by the quick pace at which they were walking.

At last they reached their own gate, and Bunting pushed past in
front of his wife.

After all, Daisy was his child; Ellen couldn't know how he was
feeling.

He seemed to take the path in one leap, then fumbled for a moment
with his latchkey.

Opening wide the door, "Daisy!" he called out, in a wailing voice,
"Daisy, my dear! where are you?"

"Here I am, father. What is it?"

"She's all right." Bunting turned a grey face to his wife. "She's
all right, Ellen."

He waited a moment, leaning against the wall of the passage. "It
did give me a turn," he said, and then, warningly, "Don't frighten
the girl, Ellen."

Daisy was standing before the fire in their sitting room, admiring
herself in the glass.

"Oh, father," she exclaimed, without turning round, "I've seen the