CHAPTER XXIII.
All afternoon it went on snowing; and the three of them sat there, listening and waiting--Bunting and his wife hardly knew for what; Daisy for the knock which would herald Joe Chandler.
And about four there came the now familiar sound.
Mrs.Bunting hurried out into the passage, and as she opened the front door she whispered, "We haven't said anything to Daisy yet.
Young girls can't keep secrets." Chandler nodded comprehendingly.

He now looked the low character he had assumed to the life, for he was blue with cold, disheartened, and tired out.
Daisy gave a little cry of shocked surprise, of amusement, of welcome, when she saw how cleverly he was disguised.
"I never!" she exclaimed.

"What a difference it do make, to be sure! Why, you looks quite horrid, Mr.Chandler." And, somehow, that little speech of hers amused her father so much that he quite cheered up.

Bunting had been very dull and quiet all that afternoon.
"It won't take me ten minutes to make myself respectable again," said the young man rather ruefully.
His host and hostess, looking at him eagerly, furtively, both came to the conclusion that he had been unsuccessful--that he had failed, that is, in getting any information worth having.

And though, in a sense, they all had a pleasant tea together, there was an air of constraint, even of discomfort, over the little party.
Bunting felt it hard that he couldn't ask the questions that were trembling on his lips; he would have felt it hard any time during the last month to refrain from knowing anything Joe could tell him, but now it seemed almost intolerable to be in this queer kind of half suspense.