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.
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