“A clue, Bunting?” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a soft, weak, die-away voice, and again, stooping somewhat, she grasped the edge of the table.

But her husband was not noticing her now.  He was holding the paper close up to his eyes, and he read from it, in a tone of considerable satisfaction: 

“’It is gratifying to be able to state that the police at last believe they are in possession of a clue which will lead to the arrest of the—­’” and then Bunting dropped the paper and rushed round the table.

His wife, with a curious sighing moan, had slipped down on to the floor, taking with her the tablecloth as she went.  She lay there in what appeared to be a dead faint.  And Bunting, scared out of his wits, opened the door and screamed out, “Daisy!  Daisy!  Come up, child.  Ellen’s took bad again.”

And Daisy, hurrying in, showed an amount of sense and resource which even at this anxious moment roused her fond father’s admiration.

“Get a wet sponge, Dad—­quick!” she cried, “a sponge,—­and, if you’ve got such a thing, a drop o’ brandy.  I’ll see after her!” And then, after he had got the little medicine flask, “I can’t think what’s wrong with Ellen,” said Daisy wonderingly.  “She seemed quite all right when I first came in.  She was listening, interested-like, to what I was telling her, and then, suddenly—­well, you saw how she was took, father?  ’Tain’t like Ellen this, is it now?”

“No,” he whispered.  “No, ’tain’t.  But you see, child, we’ve been going through a pretty bad time—­worse nor I should ever have let you know of, my dear.  Ellen’s just feeling it now—­that’s what it is.  She didn’t say nothing, for Ellen’s a good plucked one, but it’s told on her—­it’s told on her!”

And then Mrs. Bunting, sitting up, slowly opened her eyes, and instinctively put her hand up to her head to see if her hair was all right.

She hadn’t really been quite “off.”  It would have been better for her if she had.  She had simply had an awful feeling that she couldn’t stand up—­more, that she must fall down.  Bunting’s words touched a most unwonted chord in the poor woman’s heart, and the eyes which she opened were full of tears.  She had not thought her husband knew how she had suffered during those weeks of starving and waiting.

But she had a morbid dislike of any betrayal of sentiment.  To her such betrayal betokened “foolishness,” and so all she said was, “There’s no need to make a fuss!  I only turned over a little queer.  I never was right off, Daisy.”

Pettishly she pushed away the glass in which Bunting had hurriedly poured a little brandy.  “I wouldn’t touch such stuff—­no, not if I was dying!” she exclaimed.

Putting out a languid hand, she pulled herself up, with the help of the table, on to her feet.  “Go down again to the kitchen, child”; but there was a sob, a kind of tremor in her voice.

“You haven’t been eating properly, Ellen—­that’s what’s the matter with you,” said Bunting suddenly.  “Now I come to think of it, you haven’t eat half enough these last two days.  I always did say—­in old days many a time I telled you—­that a woman couldn’t live on air.  But there, you never believed me!”