for the first time in all that dreadful night, Miss Connie
gave out. She sat weakly down, crying like a very little child. "Oh,
Buckney!" she sobbed, "they told us not to take a Barnardo boy; that
they were, half of them, just street arabs; that we--we couldn't trust
them. So, sometimes I've been afraid to hope _you_ were all right; and
now you have probably saved my life."

"No 'probably' about it, Miss Connie," said the officer; "he undoubtedly
has saved your life, and the doctor's too. But, come, child, don't cry;
get to bed--there's a good little girl. You've had a bad night of it."
Then, turning to his men, he commanded: "March those two choice
specimens to the police station at once. Well, good-night, doctor!
Good-night, Miss Connie." And looking at Buck he said, curiously,
"Good-night, youngster! So you're a Barnardo boy, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Buck, lifting his chin a little. "I used to be ashamed
of it, but--"

"You needn't be," said the officer. "It's not what a boy _was_, but
what he _is_, that counts nowadays. Goodnight! I wish we had more
Britishers like you."

Then the door closed and the tramp of the policemen and their prisoners
died slowly away in the night.

The Broken String

Archie Anderson was lying on the lounge that was just hidden from the
front room by a bend of the folding doors. He was utterly tired out,
with that unreasonable weariness that comes from what most of his boy
chums called "doing nothing." He had been standing still, practising for
two hours steadily, and his throbbing head and weakening knees finally
conquered his energy. He flung himself down among the pillows, his
violin and bow on a nearby chair. Then a voice jarred on every nerve of
his sensitive body; it was a lady's voice in the next room, and she was
saying to his mother:

"And how is poor Archie to-day?"

"Poor Archie!" How he hated to be called "poor" Archie!

His mother's voice softened as she replied: "Oh, he's _pretty_ well
to-day; his head aches and he seems to be weak, but he has been
practising all the morning."

"He must be a great care and anxiety to you," said the caller.

Archie shuddered at the words.

"Only a sweet care," said his mother. "I am always hoping he will
outgrow his delicate health."

Archie groaned. How horribly like a girl it was to be "delicate."

"I think," went on the caller, raspingly, "that a frail boy _is_ a care.
One depends so on one's sons to be a strength to one