"Well," hesitated the doctor, "we'll have to give him a trial, I suppose. Miss Connie took a fancy to him."
"Oh, Miss Connie, was it?" repeated the stableman, in quite another tone. "Then that settles it, sir." And it did.
"So I owes dis 'ere 'ome to 'Miss Connie,' does I?" remarked Buck to himself. "Den if dis is so, I's good for payin' of her fer it." Only he pronounced "pay" "py."
But it was a long two years before the boy got any chance to "py" her for her kindness, and when the chance did come, he would have given his sturdy young life to avert it. By this time, much mixing with Canadians had blunted his London street-bred accent. To be sure he occasionally slipped an "h," or inserted one where it should not be, but he was fast swinging into line with the great young country he now called "home." He could eat Indian corn and maple syrup, he could skate, toboggan, and ply a paddle, he could handle a horse as well as Watkins, the stableman, who was heard on several occasions to remark that he could not get along without the boy.
In the holidays, when Miss Connie was home from school, Buck was frequently allowed to drive her, or sit in his cream and brown livery beside her while she drove herself. These were always great occasions, for no refined feminine being had ever come into his life before. If he ever had a mother—which he often doubted—he certainly had no recollection of her or her surroundings. To be sure the women about the "Home" in far-off England were kind and good, but this slim Canadian girl was so different. She looked like a flower, and he had never heard her speak a harsh, unlovely word in all those two years. Once as he stood at the carriage door, the rug over his arm, waiting for Miss Connie to descend the steps for her afternoon drive, an impudent little "Canuck" jeered at him in passing.
"Hello, Hinglish!" he yelled. "We're a Barnardo boy, we h'is, fer all our swell brass buttons."
Buck winced. How he hated Watkins on the box to hear this everlasting taunt cast at him. But a sweet voice from the steps called:
"You are quite right, my boy. He is a Barnardo boy. I wish we were all as great and good as Dr. Barnardo. I am proud to have one of his boys in my household."
The young urchin shrank away, abashed, for it was Miss Connie's voice. Buck pulled himself together, touched his hat, and opened the carriage door. But the girl paused on the steps, and her voice was very sincere as she said: "I mean it, Buckney" (she always called him "Buckney"). "I am very proud to have you here."
Buck touched his hat. "Thank you, madam," was all he said, but his young heart sang with gratitude. Would he ever get the chance to show her how he valued her kindness, he wondered. And then—the chance came.