etectives began to question Connie.

"We want to ask you a few questions, my dear," said Constable Z. "Who
dragged you into that court last night?"

"I won't say," answered Connie.

"You won't say? But you know."

"I won't say nothing," said Connie.

"That is blamed nonsense!" cried Harris, suddenly rousing himself.
"Yer've got to say--yer've got to make a clean breast of it. Wot's up?
Speak!"

"I wouldn't be here, father," said Connie, "'ef I'd not promised most
faithfully not _iver_ to tell, and I won't iver, iver, iver tell, not to
anybody in all the world."

There was a decidedly new quality in the girl's voice.

"I wouldn't do it for nobody," continued Connie. She drew herself up,
and looked taller; her eyes were shining. The detectives glanced at each
other.

"If you was put in the witness-box, missy," said one, "yer'd have to
break that promise o' yourn, whoever you made it to, or you'ud know what
contempt of the law meant."

"But I am not in the witness-box," said Connie, her tone suddenly
becoming gay. "It was awful kind of people to look for me, but they
might ha' looked for ever and niver found me again. I'm 'ere now quite
safe, and nothing 'as 'appened at all, and I'm niver goin' to tell.
Please, Father John, _you_ won't ask me?"

"No, my child," said Father John. "You have made a promise, perhaps a
rash one, but I should be the last to counsel you to break it."

Nothing more could be gained from Connie at present; and by-and-by
Father John and the two detectives left her alone with Harris. When the
door closed behind the three men a timid expression came into Connie's
gentle eyes. Beyond doubt her father was sober, but he looked very
queer--fearfully red in the face, nervous, trembling, bad in his temper.
Connie had seen him in many moods, but this particular mood she had
never witnessed in him before. He must really love her. He knew nothing
about that terrible time last night when he had turned her away. Then he
did not know what he was doing.

Connie was the last to bear him malice for what--like many other little
girls of her class--she considered he could not help. Most of the
children in the courts and streets around had fathers who drank. It
seemed to Connie and to the other children that this was a necessary
part of fathers--that they all took what was not good for them, and were
exceedingly unpleasant under its influence.

She stood now by the window, and Harris sank into a chair.