Burnham Breaker

By Homer Greene

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Title: Burnham Breaker

Author: Homer Greene

Release Date: December 13, 2003  [eBook #10449]

Language: English


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BURNHAM BREAKER

BY

HOMER GREENE

AUTHOR OF "THE BLIND BROTHER"







TO MY FATHER,

WHOSE GRAY HAIRS I HONOR, AND WHOSE PERFECT MANHOOD I REVERE,

THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR.

HONESDALE, PENN., SEPT. 29, 1887.




CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

     I. A SURPRISE IN THE SCREEN-ROOM

    II. A STRANGE VISITOR

   III. A BRILLIANT SCHEME

    IV. A SET OF RESOLUTIONS

     V. IN SEARCH OF A MOTHER

    VI. BREAKING THE NEWS

   VII. RHYMING JOE

  VIII. A FRIEND IN NEED

    IX. A FRIEND INDEED

     X. AT THE BAR OF THE COURT

    XI. THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE

   XII. AT THE GATES OF PARADISE

  XIII. THE PURCHASE OF A LIE

   XIV. THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD

    XV. AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY

   XVI. A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL

  XVII. GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY

 XVIII. A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS

   XIX. BACK TO THE BREAKER

    XX. THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT

   XXI. A PERILOUS PASSAGE

  XXII. IN THE POWER OF DARKNESS

 XXIII. A STROKE OF LIGHTNING

  XXIV. AT THE DAWN OF DAY




CHAPTER I.

A SURPRISE IN THE SCREEN-ROOM.


The city of Scranton lies in the centre of the Lackawanna coal-field,
in the State of Pennsylvania. Year by year the suburbs of the city
creep up the sides of the surrounding hills, like the waters of a
rising lake.

Standing at any point on this shore line of human habitations, you can
look out across the wide landscape and count a score of coal-breakers
within the limits of your first glance. These breakers are huge, dark
buildings that remind you of castles of the olden time. They are
many-winged and many-windowed, and their shaft-towers rise high up
toward the clouds and the stars. About the feet of those in the valley
the waves of the out-reaching city beat and break, and out on the
hill-sides they stand like mighty fortresses built to guard the lives
and fortunes of the multitudes who toil beneath them. But they are not
long-lived. Like human beings, they rise, they flourish, they die and
are forgotten. Not one in hundreds of the people who walk the streets
of Scranton to-day, or who dig the coal from its surrounding hills,
can tell you where Burnham Breaker stood a quarter of a century ago.
Yet there are men still living, and boys who have grown to manhood,
scores of them, who toiled for years in the black dust breathed out
from its throats of iron, and listened to the thunder of its grinding
jaws from dawn to dark of many and many a day.

These will surely tell you where the breaker stood. They are proud to
have labored there in other years. They will speak to you of that time
with pleasant memories. It was thought to be a stroke of fortune to
obtain work at Burnham Breaker. It was just beyond the suburbs of the
city as they then were, and near to the homes of all the workmen. The
vein of coal at this point was of more than ordinary thickness, and of
excellent quality, and these were matters of much moment to the miners
who worked there. Then, the wages were always paid according to the
highest rate, promptly and in full.

But there was something more, and more important than all this, to be
considered. Robert Burnham, the chief power in the company, and the
manager of its interests, was a man whose energetic business qualities
and methods did not interfere with his concern for the welfare of his
employees. He was not only just, but liberal and kind. He held not
only the confidence but the good-will, even the affection, of those
who labored under him. There were never any strikes at the Burnham
mines. The men would have considered it high treason in any one to
advocate a strike against the interests of Robert Burnham.

Yet it was no place for idling. There were, no laggards there. Men
had to work, and work hard too, for the wages that bought their daily
bread. Even the boys in the screen-room were held as closely to their
tasks as care and vigilance could hold them. Theirs were no light
tasks, either. They sat all day on their little benches, high up in
the great black building, with their eyes fixed always on the shallow
streams of broken coal passing down the iron-sheathed chutes, and
falling out of sight below them; and it was their duty to pick the
particles of slate and stone from out these moving masses, bending
constantly above them as they worked. It was not the physical exertion
that made their task a hard one; there was not much straining of the
joints or muscles, not even in the constant bending of the body to
that one position.

Neither was it that their tender hands were often cut and bruised by
the sharp pieces of the coal or the heavy ones of slate. But it was
hard because they were boys; young boys, with bounding pulses, chafing
at restraint, full to the brim with life and spirit, longing for the
fresh air, the bright sunlight, the fields, the woods, the waters, the
birds, the flowers, all things beautiful and wonderful that nature
spreads upon the earth to make of it a paradise for boys. To think of
all these things, to catch brief glimpses of the happiness of children
who were not born to toil, and then to sit, from dawn to mid-day and
from mid-day till the sun went down, and listen to the ceaseless
thunder of moving wheels and the constant sliding of the streams of
coal across their iron beds,--it was this that wearied them.

To know that in the woods the brooks were singing over pebbly bottoms,
that in the fields the air was filled with the fragrance of blossoming
flowers, that everywhere the free wind rioted at will, and then to
sit in such a prison-house as this all day, and breathe an atmosphere
so thick with dust that even the bits of blue sky framed in by
the open windows in the summer time were like strips of some dark
thunder-cloud,--it was this, this dull monotony of dizzy sight and
doleful sound and changeless post of duty, that made their task a hard
one.

There came a certain summer day at Burnham Breaker when the labor and
confinement fell with double weight upon the slate-pickers in the
screen-room. It was circus day. The dead-walls and bill-boards of the
city had been gorgeous for weeks and weeks with pictures heralding the
wonders of the coming show. By the turnpike road, not forty rods from
where the breaker stood, there was a wide barn the whole side of which
had been covered with brightly colored prints of beasts and birds, of
long processions, of men turning marvellous somersaults, of ladies
riding, poised on one foot, on the backs of flying horses, of a
hundred other things to charm the eyes and rouse anticipation in the
breasts of boys.

Every day, when the whistle blew at noon, the boys ran, shouting, from
the breaker, and hurried, with their dinner-pails, to the roadside
barn, to eat and gaze alternately, and discuss the pictured wonders.

And now it was all here; beasts, birds, vaulting men, flying women,
racing horses and all. They had seen the great white tents gleaming
in the sunlight up in the open fields, a mile away, and had heard the
distant music of the band and caught glimpses of the long procession
as it wound through the city streets below them. This was at the noon
hour, while they were waiting for the signal that should call them
back into the dust and din of the screen-room, where they might dream,
indeed, of circus joys while bending to their tasks, but that was all.
There was much wishing and longing. There was some murmuring. There
was even a rash suggestion from one boy that they should go, in spite
of the breaker and the bosses, and revel for a good half-day in the
pleasures of the show. But this treasonable proposition was frowned
down without delay. These boys had caught the spirit of loyalty
from the men who worked at Burnham Breaker, and not even so great a
temptation as this could keep them from the path of duty.

When the bell rang for them to return to work, not one was missing,
each bench had its accustomed occupant, and the coal that was poured
into the cars at the loading-place was never more free from slate and
stone than it was that afternoon.

But it was hot up in the screen-room. The air was close and stifling,
and heavy with the choking dust. The noise of the iron-teethed rollers
crunching the lumps of coal, and the bang and rattle of ponderous
machinery were never before so loud and discordant, and the black
streams moving down their narrow channels never passed beneath these
dizzy boys in monotony quite so dull and ceaseless as they were
passing this day.

Suddenly the machinery stopped. The grinding and the roaring ceased.
The frame-work of the giant building was quiet from its trembling. The
iron gates that held back the broken coal were quickly shut and the
long chutes were empty.

The unexpected stillness was almost startling. The boys looked up in
mute astonishment.

Through the dust, in the door-way at the end of the room, they saw the
breaker boss and the screen-room boss talking with Robert Burnham.
Then Mr. Burnham advanced a step or two and said:--

"Boys, Mr. Curtis tells me you are all here. I am pleased with your
loyalty. I had rather have the good-will and confidence of the boys
who work for me than to have the money that they earn. Now, I intend
that you shall see the circus if you wish to, and you will be provided
with the means of admission to it. Mr. Curtis will dismiss you for the
rest of the day, and as you pass out you will each receive a silver
quarter as a gift for good behavior."

For a minute the boys were silent. It was too sudden a vision of
happiness to be realized at once. Then one little fellow stood up on
his bench and shouted:--

"Hooray for Mr. Burnham!" The next moment the air was filled with
shouts and hurrahs so loud and vigorous that they went echoing
through every dust-laden apartment of the huge building from head to
loading-place.

Then the boys filed out. One by one they went through the door-way,
each, as he passed, receiving from Mr. Burnham's own hand the shining
piece of silver that should admit him to the wonders of the "greatest
show on earth."

They spoke their thanks, rudely indeed, and in voices that were almost
too much burdened with happiness for quiet speech.

But their eyes were sparkling with anticipation; their lips were
parted in smiles, their white teeth were gleaming from their
dust-black faces, each look and action was eloquent with thoughts of
coming pleasure. And the one who enjoyed it more than all the others
was Robert Burnham.

It is so old that it was trite and tiresome centuries ago, that saying
about one finding one's greatest happiness in making others happy. But
it has never ceased to be true; it never will cease to be true; it is
one of those primal principles of humanity that no use nor law nor
logic can ever hope to falsify.

The last boy in the line differed apparently in no respect from
those who had preceded him. The faces of all of them were black with
coal-dust, and their clothes were patched and soiled. But this one had
just cut his hand, and, as he held it up to let the blood drip from it
you noticed that it was small and delicate in shape.

"Why, my boy!" exclaimed Mr. Burnham, "you have cut your hand. Let me
see."

"'Taint much, sir," the lad replied; "I often cut 'em a little. You're
apt to, a-handlin' the coal that way." The man had the little hand in
his and bent to examine the wound. "That's quite a cut," he said, "as
clean as though it had been made with a knife. Come, let's wash it off
and fix it up a little."

He led the way to the corner of the room, uncovered the water-pail,
dipped out a cup of water, and began to bathe the bleeding hand.

"That shows it's good coal, sir," said the boy, "Poor coal wouldn't
make such a clean cut as that. The better the coal the sharper 'tis."

"Thank you," said Mr. Burnham, smiling. "Taking the circumstances into
consideration, I regard that as the best compliment for our coal that
I have ever received."

The hand had been washed off as well as water without soap could do
it.

"I guess that's as clean as it'll come," said the boy. "It's pirty
hard work to git 'em real clean. The dirt gits into the corners so,
an' into the chaps an' cuts, an' you can't git it all out, not even
for Sunday."

The man was looking around for something to bind up the wound with.
"Have you a handkerchief?" he asked.

The boy drew from an inner pocket what had once been a red bandanna
handkerchief of the old style, but alas! it was sadly soiled, it was
worn beyond repair and crumpled beyond belief.

"'Taint very clean," he said, apologetically. "You can't keep a
han'kerchy very clean a-workin' in the breaker, it's so dusty here."

"Oh! it's good enough," replied the man, noticing the boy's
embarrassment, and trying to reassure him, "it's plenty good enough,
but it's red you see, and red won't do. Here, I have a white one. This
is just the thing," he added, tearing his own handkerchief into strips
and binding them carefully about the wounded hand. "There!" giving the
bandage a final adjustment; "that will be better for it. Now, then,
you're off to the circus; good-by."

The lad took a step or two forward, hesitated a moment, and then
turned back. The breaker boss and the screen-room boss were already
gone and he was alone with Mr. Burnham.

"Would it make any dif'rence to you," he asked, holding up the silver
coin, "if I spent this money for sumpthin' else, an' didn't go to the
circus with it?"

"Why, no!" said the man, wonderingly, "I suppose not; but I thought
you boys would rather spend your money at the circus than to spend it
in almost any other way."

"Oh! I'd like to go well enough. I al'ays did like a circus, an' I
wanted to go to this one, 'cause it's a big one; but they's sumpthin'
else I want worse'n that, an' I'm a-tryin' to save up a little money
for it."

Robert Burnham's curiosity was aroused. Here was a boy who was willing
to forego the pleasures of the circus that he might gratify some
greater desire; a strong and noble one, the man felt sure, to call for
such a sacrifice. Visions of a worn-out mother, an invalid sister, a
mortgaged home, passed through his mind as he said: "And what is it
you are saving your money for, my boy, if I am at liberty to ask?"

"To'stablish my'dentity, sir."

"To do what?"

"To'stablish my'dentity; that's what Uncle Billy calls it."

"Why, what's the matter with your identity?"

"I ain't got any; I'm a stranger; I don't know who my 'lations are."

"Don't know--who--your relations are! Why, what's your name?"

"Ralph, that's all; I ain't got any other name. They call me Ralph
Buckley sometimes, 'cause I live with Uncle Billy; but he ain't my
uncle, you know,--I only call him Uncle Billy 'cause I live with him,
an'--an' he's good to me, that's all."

At the name "Ralph," coming so suddenly from the lad's lips, the man
had started, turned pale, and then his face flushed deeply. He drew
the boy down tenderly on the bench beside him, and said:--

"Tell me about yourself, Ralph; where do you say you live?"

"With Uncle Billy,--Bachelor Billy they call him; him that dumps at
the head, pushes the cars out from the carriage an' dumps 'em; don't
you know Billy Buckley?"

The man nodded assent and the boy went on:--

"He's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has; you don't know how good
he's been to me; but he ain't my uncle, he ain't no 'lation to me; I
ain't got no 'lations 'at I know of; I wish't I had."

The lad looked wistfully out through the open window to the far line
of hills with their summits veiled in a delicate mist of blue.

"But where did Billy get you?" asked Mr. Burnham.

"He foun' me; he foun' me on the road, an' he took me in an' took care
o' me, and he didn't know me at all; that's where he's so good. I was
sick, an' he hired Widow Maloney to tend me while he was a-workin',
and when I got well he got me this place a-pickin' slate in the
breaker."

"But, Ralph, where had you come from when Billy found you?"

"Well, now, I'll tell you all I know about it. The first thing 'at I
'member is 'at I was a-livin' with Gran'pa Simon in Philadelphy. He
wasn't my gran'pa, though; if he had 'a' been he wouldn't 'a' 'bused
me so. I don't know where he got me, but he treated me very bad; an'
when I wouldn't do bad things for him, he whipped me, he whipped me
awful, an' he shet me up in the dark all day an' all night, 'an didn't
give me nothin' to eat; an' I'm dreadful 'fraid o' the dark; an' I
wasn't more'n jest about so high, neither. Well, you see, I couldn't
stan' it, an' one day I run away. I wouldn't 'a' run away if I could
'a' stood it, but I _couldn't_ stan' it no longer. Gran'pa Simon
wasn't there when I run away. He used to go off an' leave me with Ole
Sally, an' she wasn't much better'n him, only she couldn't see very
well, an' she couldn't follow me. I slep' with Buck the bootblack that
night, an' nex' mornin', early, I started out in the country. I was
'fraid they'd find me if I stayed aroun' the city. It was pirty near
afternoon 'fore I got out where the fields is, an' then a woman, she
give me sumpthin' to eat. I wanted to git away from the city fur's I
could, an' day-times I walked fast, an' nights I slep' under the big
trees, an' folks in the houses along the road, they give me things
to eat. An' then a circus came along, an' the man on the tiger wagon
he give me a ride, an' then I went everywhere with the circus, an'
I worked for 'em, oh! for a good many days; I worked real hard too,
a-doin' everything, an' they never let me go into their show but once,
only jest once. Well, w'en we got here to Scranton I got sick, an'
they wouldn't take me no furder 'cause I wasn't any good to 'em, an'
they went off an' lef me, an' nex' mornin' I laid down up there along
the road a-cryin' an' a-feelin' awful bad, an' then Uncle Billy, he
happened to come that way, an' he foun' me an' took me home with him.
He lives in part o' Widow Maloney's house, you know, an' he ain't got
nobody but me, an' I ain't got nobody but him, an' we live together.
That's why they call him Bachelor Billy, 'cause he ain't never got
married. Oh! he's been awful good to me, Uncle Billy has, awful good!"
And the boy looked out again musingly into the blue distance.

The man had not once stirred during this recital. His eyes had been
fixed on the boy's face, and he had listened with intense interest.

"Well, Ralph," he said, "that is indeed a strange story. And is that
all you know about yourself? Have you no clew to your parentage or
birthplace?"

"No, sir; not any. That's what I want to find out when I git money
enough."

"How much money have you now?"

"About nine dollars, countin' what I'll save from nex' pay day."

"And how do you propose to proceed when you have money enough?"

"Hire a lawyer to 'vestigate. The lawyer he keeps half the money, an'
gives the other half of it to a 'tective, an' then the 'tective, he
finds out all about you. Uncle Billy says that's the way. He says if
you git a good smart lawyer you can find out 'most anything."

"And suppose you should find your parents, and they should be rich and
give you a great deal of money, how would you spend it?"

"Well, I don't know; I'd give a lot of it to Uncle Billy, I guess,
an' some to Widow Maloney, an'--an' I'd go to the circus, an'--but I
wouldn't care so much about the money, sir, if I could have folks like
other boys have. If I could only have a mother, that's what I want
worst, a mother to kiss me every day, an' be good to me that way, like
mothers are, you know; if I could only jest have that, I wouldn't want
nothin' else, not never any more."

The man turned his face away.

"And wouldn't you like to have a father too?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, I would; but I _could_ git along without a father, a real
father. Uncle Billy's been a kind o' father to me; but I ain't never
had no mother, nor no sister; an' that's what I want now, an" I want
'em very bad. Seems, sometimes, jes' as if I _couldn't_ wait; jes' as
if I couldn't stan' it no longer 'thout 'em. Don't--don't you s'pose
the things we can't have is the things we want worst?"

"Yes, my boy: yes. You've spoken a truth as old as the ages. That
which I myself would give my fortune for I can never have. I mean my
little boy who--who died. I cannot have him back. His name too was
Ralph."

For a few moments there was silence in the screen-room. The child was
awed by the man's effort to suppress his deep emotion.

At last Ralph said, rising:--

"Well, I mus' go now an' tell Uncle Billy."

Mr. Burnham rose in his turn.

"Yes," he said, "you'll be late for the circus if you don't hurry.
What! you're not going? Oh! yes, you _must_ go. Here, here's a silver
dollar to add to your identity fund; now you can afford to spend the
quarter. Yes," as the boy hesitated to accept the proffered money,
"yes, you _must_ take it; you can pay it back, you know, when--when
you come to your own. And wait! I want to help you in that matter of
establishing your identity. Come to my office, and we'll talk it over.
Let me see; to-day is Tuesday. Friday we shall shut down the screens a
half-day for repairs. Come on Friday afternoon."

"Thank you, sir; yes, sir, I will."

"All right; good-by!"

"Good-by, sir!"

When Ralph reached the circus grounds the crowds were still pushing in
through the gate at the front of the big tent, and he had to take his
place far back in the line and move slowly along with the others.

Leaning wearily against a post near the entrance, and watching the
people as they passed in, stood an old man. He was shabbily dressed,
his clothes' were very dusty, and an old felt hat was pulled low on
his forehead. He was pale and gaunt, and an occasional hollow cough
gave conclusive evidence of his disease. But 'he had a pair of sharp
gray eyes that looked out from under the brim of his hat, and gave
close scrutiny to every one who passed by. The breaker boys, who had
gone into the tent in a body some minutes earlier, had attracted his
attention and aroused his interest. By and by his eyes rested upon
Ralph, who stood back in the line, awaiting the forward movement of
the crowd. The old man started perceptibly at sight of the boy, and
uttered an ejaculation of surprise, which ended in a cough. He moved
forward as if to meet him; then, apparently on second thought, he
retreated to his post. But he kept his eyes fixed on the lad, who was
coming slowly nearer, and his thin face took on an expression of the
deepest satisfaction. He turned partly aside, however, as the boy
approached him, and stood with averted countenance until the lad had
passed through the gate.

Ralph was just in time. He had no sooner got in and found a seat, with
the other breaker boys, away up under the edge of the tent, than the
grand procession made its entrance. There were golden chariots, there
were ladies in elegant riding habits and men in knightly costumes,
there were prancing steeds and gorgeous banners, elephants, camels,
monkeys, clowns, a moving mass of dazzling beauty and bright colors
that almost made one dizzy to look upon it; and through it all the
great band across the arena poured its stirring music in a way to
make the pulses leap and the hands and feet keep time to its sounding
rhythm.

Then came the athletes and the jugglers, the tight-rope walkers and
the trapeze performers, the trained dogs and horses, the clowns and
the monkeys, the riding and the races; all of it too wonderful, too
mirthful, too complete to be adequately described. At least, this was
what the breaker boys thought.

After the performance was ended, they went out to the menagerie tent,
in a body, to look at the animals.

One of the boys became separated from the others, and stood watching
the antics of the monkeys, and laughing gleefully at each comical
trick performed by the grave-faced little creatures. Looking up, he
saw an old man standing by him; an old man with sharp gray eyes and
dusty clothes, who leaned heavily upon a cane.

"Curious things, these monkeys," said the old man.

"Ain't they, though!" replied the boy. "Luk at that un, now!--don't he
beat all? ain't he funny?"

"Very!" responded the old man, gazing across the open space to where
Ralph stood chattering with his companions.

"Sonny," said he, "can you tell me who that boy is, over yonder, with
his hand done up in a white cloth?"

"That boy w'ats a-talkin' to Jimmy Dooley, you mean?"

"Yes, the one there by the lion's cage."

"You mean that boy there with the blue patch on his pants?"

"Yes, yes! the one with his hand bandaged; don't you see?"

"Oh, that's Ralph."

"Ralph who?"

"Ralph nobody. He ain't got no other name. He lives with Bachelor
Billy."

"Is--is Bachelor Billy his father?"

"Naw; he ain't got no father."

"Does he work with you in the mines?"

"In the mines? naw; we don't work in the mines; we work in the
screen-room up t' the breaker, a-pickin' slate. He sets nex' to me."

"How long has he been working there?"

"Oh, I donno; couple o' years, I guess. You want to see 'im? I'll go
call 'im."

"No; I don't care to see him. Don't call him; he isn't the boy I'm
looking for, any way."

"There! he's a-turnin' this way now. I'll have 'im here in a minute;
hey, Ralph! Ralph! here he comes."

But the old man was gone. He had disappeared suddenly and
mysteriously. A little later he was trudging slowly along the dusty
road, through the crowds of people, up toward the city. He was
smiling, and muttering to himself. "Found him at last!" he exclaimed,
in a whisper, "found him at last! It'll be all right now; only be
cautious, Simon! be cautious!"




CHAPTER II.

A STRANGE VISITOR.


It was the day after the circus. Robert Burnham sat in his office on
Lackawanna Avenue, busy with his afternoon mail. As he laid the last
letter aside the incidents of the previous day recurred to him, and he
saw again, in imagination, the long line of breaker-boys, with happy,
dusty faces, filing slowly by him, grateful for his gifts, eager for
the joys to come. The pleasure he had found in his generous deed
stayed with him, as such pleasures always do, and was manifest even
now in the light of his kindly face.

He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had
awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his
wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his
little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who
worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and
whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly
to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad
and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the
screen-room.

But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery
surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble
though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to
which his parentage entitled him. The more he thought on this subject,
the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly
nature was aroused and eager for action.

There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much
of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he
lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but something
also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of
the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and
brought no unfamiliar sound.

The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from
his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked
absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of
this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life.

By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him.
Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby
clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently from
the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no
sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing.

He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table
from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by
his side, and laid his cane across it.

When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said:
"Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of
coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?"

"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some
curiosity.

"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?"

"No, I don't remember to have met you before."

"It's not likely that you have, not at all likely. My name is Craft,
Simon Craft. I live in Philadelphia when I'm at home."

"Ah! Philadelphia is a fine city. What can I do for you, Mr. Craft?"

"That isn't the question, sir. The question is, what can _I_ do for
_you_?"

The old man looked carefully around the room, rose, went to the door,
which had been left ajar, closed it noiselessly, and resumed his seat.

"Well," said Mr. Burnham, calmly, "what can you do for me?"

"Much," responded the old man, resting his elbows on the table in
front of him; "very much if you will give me your time and attention
for a few moments."

"My time is at your disposal," replied Burnham, smiling, and leaning
back in his chair somewhat wearily, "and I am all attention; proceed."

Thus far the old man had succeeded in arousing in his listener only
a languid curiosity. This coal magnate was accustomed to being
interrupted by "cranks" of all kinds, as are most rich men, and
often enjoyed short interviews with them. This one had opened the
conversation in much the usual manner, and the probability seemed to
be that he would now go on to unfold the usual scheme by which his
listener's thousands could be converted into millions in an incredibly
short time, under the skilful management of the schemer. But his very
next words dispelled this idea and aroused Robert Burnham to serious
attention.

"Do you remember," the old man asked, "the Cherry Brook bridge
disaster that occurred near Philadelphia some eight years ago?"

"Yes," replied Burnham, straightening up in his chair, "I do; I have
good reason to remember it. Were you on that train?"

"I was on that train. Terrible accident, wasn't it?"

"Terrible; yes, it was terrible indeed."

"Wouldn't have been quite so bad if the cars hadn't taken fire and
burned up after they went down, would it?"

"The fire was the most distressing part of it; but why do you ask me
these questions?"

"You were on board, I believe, you and your wife and your child, and
all went down. Isn't that so?"

"Yes, it is so. But why, I repeat, are you asking me these questions?
It is no pleasure to me to talk about this matter, I assure you."

Craft gave no heed to this protest, but kept on:--

"You and your wife were rescued in an unconscious state, were you not,
just as the fire was creeping up to you?"

The old man seemed to take delight in torturing his hearer by
calling up painful memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he
continued:--

"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in
the wreck, wasn't he?"

"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any
object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at
once; if not, I have no time to listen to you further."

"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important
object, which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to
answer my question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at
Cherry Bridge, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?"

"Simply this, that you are mistaken."

"What do you mean?"

"Your boy is not dead."

Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face
took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his
lips.

"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof
of it."

"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw
him--yesterday."

"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you."

Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary
hopelessness on his face.

"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make you
fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of the
truth of what I say."

"Very well; produce them."

The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and
placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of
coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from
his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel.
Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook
it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little
flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained
and soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were
completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned,
the edges of which were still black and crumbling.

"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man.

Burnham seized it with both hands.

"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where
did you get it? Where did you get it, I say?"

Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something
else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of
velvet and lace, and laid it on the table.

This, too, was grasped by Burnham with eager fingers, and looked upon
with loving eyes.

"Do you still think me wild?" said the old man, "or do you believe now
that I have some knowledge of what I am talking about?"

His listener did not answer the question. His mind seemed to be far
away. He said, finally:--

"There--there was a locket, a little gold locket. It had his father's
picture in it. Did--did you find that?"

The visitor smiled, opened the wallet again, and produced the locket.
The father took it in his trembling hands, looked on it very tenderly
for a moment, and then his eyes became flooded with tears.

"It was his," he said at last, very gently; "they were all his; tell
me now--where did you get them?"

"I came by them honestly, Mr. Burnham, honestly; and I have kept them
faithfully. But I will tell you the whole story. I think you are ready
now to hear it with attention, and to consider it fairly."

The old man pushed his satchel aside, pulled his chair closer to the
table, cleared his throat, and began:--

"It was May 13, 1859. I'd been out in the country at my son's, and was
riding into the city in the evening. I was in the smoking-car. Along
about nine o'clock there was a sudden jerk, then half a dozen more
jerks, and the train came to a dead stop. I got up and went out with
the rest, and we then saw that the bridge had broken down, and the
three cars behind the smoker had tumbled into the creek. I hurried
down the bank and did what I could to help those in the wreck, but it
was very dark and the cars were piled up in a heap, and it was hard to
do anything. Then the fire broke out and we had to stand back. But I
heard a child crying by a broken window, just where the middle car had
struck across the rear one, and I climbed up there at the risk of my
life and looked in. The fire gave some light by this time, and I saw
a young woman lying there, caught between the timbers and perfectly
still. A sudden blaze showed me that she was dead. Then the child
cried again; I saw where he was, and reached in and pulled him out
just as the fire caught in his cloak. I jumped down into the water
with him, and put out the fire and saved him. He wasn't hurt much. It
was your boy Ralph. By this time the wreck was all ablaze and we had
to get up on the bank.

"I took the child around among the people there, and tried to find
out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him.
He wasn't old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn't tell me much
about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph.
I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and
the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to
discover some clew to his identity. But I couldn't find out anything
about him; nothing at all. The day after that I was taken sick. The
exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the
brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. It was several months
before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see,
from the results of that sickness. After that, as my time and means
and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy's
friends. It is useless for me to go into the details of that search,
but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible
during five years, without the slightest success. In the meantime the
child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for
him the very best I could, considering the circumstances in which I
was placed.

"About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and,
by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook
disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's
name was Ralph. Following up the clew, I became convinced that this
boy was your son. I thought the best way to break the news to you was
to bring you the child himself. With that end in view, I returned
immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph--missing. He had
either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which. I was not
able to trace him. Three months later I heard that he had been with a
travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. After
that I lost track of him entirely for about three years. Now, however,
I have found him. I saw him so lately as yesterday. He is alive and
well."

Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had
been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he
gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it.

Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of
that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was
really alive.

"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that
I might have assisted you in the search for him?"

Craft hesitated a moment.

"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too
severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day
to find him myself."

"Well, let that pass. Where is he now? Where is the boy who, you say,
is my son?"

"Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet. I know where he
is. I can bring him to you on two days' notice. But, before I do that,
I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation,
not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but
also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you."

Burnham's brow darkened.

"Ah! I see," he said. "This is to be a money transaction. Your object
is to get gain from it. Am I right?"

"Exactly. My motive is not wholly an unselfish one, I assure you."

"Still, you insist upon the absolute truth of your story?"

"I do, certainly."

"Well, then, what is your proposition? name it."

"Yes, sir. After mature consideration, I have concluded that three
thousand dollars is not too large a sum."

"Well, what then?"

"I am to receive that amount when I bring your son to you."

"But suppose I should not recognize nor acknowledge as my son the
person whom you will bring?"

"Then you will pay me no money, and the boy will return home with me."

Burnham wheeled suddenly in his chair and rose to his feet. "Listen!"
he exclaimed, earnestly. "If you will bring my boy to me, alive,
unharmed, my own boy Ralph, I will give you twice three thousand
dollars."

"In cash?"

"In cash."

"It's a bargain. You shall see him within two days. But--you may
change your mind in the meantime; will you give me a writing to secure
me?"

"Certainly."

Mr. Burnham resumed his seat and wrote hurriedly, the following
contract:--

"This agreement, made and executed this thirtieth day of June, 1867,
between Simon Craft of the city of Philadelphia, party of the first
part, and Robert Burnham of the city of Scranton, party of the second
part, both of the state of Pennsylvania, witnesseth that the said
Craft agrees to produce to the said Burnham, within two days from this
date, the son of the said Robert Burnham, named Ralph, in full life,
and in good health of body and mind. And thereupon the said Burnham,
provided he recognizes as his said son Ralph the person so produced,
agrees to pay to the said Craft, in cash, the sum of six thousand
dollars. Witness our hands and seals the day and year aforesaid.

"ROBERT BURNHAM." [L.S.]

"There!" said Burnham, handing the paper to Craft; "that will secure
you in the payment of the money, provided you fulfil your agreement.
But let me be plain with you. If you are deceiving me or trying to
deceive me, or if you should practise fraud on me, or attempt to do
so, you will surely regret it. And if that child be really in life,
and you have been guilty of any cruelty toward him, of any kind
whatever, you will look upon the world through prison bars, I promise
you, in spite of the money you may obtain from me. Now you understand;
go bring the boy."

The old man did not answer. He was holding the paper close to his
eyes, and going over it word by word.

"Yes," he said, finally; "I suppose it's all right. I'm not very
familiar with written contracts, but I'll venture it."

Burnham had risen again from his chair, and was striding up and down
the floor.

"When will you bring him?" he asked; "to-morrow?"

"My dear sir, do not be in too great haste; I am not gifted with
miraculous powers. I will bring the boy here or take you to him within
two days, as I have agreed."

"Well, then, to-day is Tuesday. Will you have him here by Friday?
Friday morning?"

"By Friday afternoon, at any rate."

The old man was carefully wrapping up the articles he had exhibited,
and putting them back into his hand-bag. Finally, Burnham's attention
was attracted to this proceeding.

"Why," he exclaimed, "what are you doing? You have no right to those
things; they are mine."

"Oh no! they are mine. They shall be given to you some time perhaps;
but, for the present, they are mine."

"Stop! you shall not have them. Those things are very precious to me.
Put them down, I say; put them down!"

"Very well. You may have these or--your boy. If you force these things
from me, you go without your child. Now take your choice."

Old Simon was very calm and firm. He knew his ground, and knew that he
could afford to be domineering. His long experience in sharp practice
had not failed to teach him that the man who holds his temper, in a
contest like this, always has the best of it. And he was too shrewd
not to see that his listener was laboring under an excitement that
was liable at any moment to break forth in passionate speech. He was,
therefore, not surprised nor greatly disturbed when Burnham exclaimed,
vehemently:--

"I'll have you arrested, sir! I'll force you to disclose your secret!
I'll have you punished by the hand of the law!"

"The hand of the law is not laid in punishment on people who are
guilty of no crime," responded Craft, coolly; "and there is no
criminal charge that you can fairly bring against me. Poverty is my
worst crime. I have done nothing except for your benefit. Now, Mr.
Burnham you are excited. Calm yourself and listen to reason. Don't you
see that if I were to give those things to you I would be putting out
of my hands the best evidence I have of the truth of my assertions?"

"But I have seen you produce them. I will not deny that you gave them
to me."

"Ah! very good; but you may die before night! What then?"

"Die before night! Absurd! But keep the things; keep them. I can do
without them if you will restore the child himself to me. When did you
say you would bring him?"

"Friday afternoon."

"Until Friday afternoon, then, I wait."

"Very well, sir; good day!"

"Good day!"

The old man picked up his cane, rose slowly from his chair, and, with
his satchel in his hand, walked softly out, closing the door carefully
behind him.

Robert Burnham continued his walk up and down the room, his flushed
face showing alternately the signs of the hope and the doubt that were
striving for the mastery within him.

For eight years he had believed his boy to be dead. The terrible
wreck at Cherry Brook had yielded up to him from its ashes only a few
formless trinkets of all that had once been his child's, only a few
unrecognizable bones, to be interred, long afterward, where flowers
might bloom above them. The last search had been made, the last clew
followed, the last resources of wealth and skill were at an end, and
these, these bones and trinkets were all that could be found. Still,
the fact of the child's death had not been established beyond all
question, and among the millions of remote possibilities that this
world always holds in reserve lingered yet the one that he might after
all be living.

And now came this old man with his strange story, and the cap and the
cloak and the locket. Did it mean simply a renewal of the old hope,
destined to fade away again into a hopelessness duller than the last?

But what if the man's story were true? What if the boy were really in
life? What if in two days' time the father should clasp his living
child in his arms, and bear him to his mother! Ah! his mother. She
would have given her life any time to have had her child restored to
her, if only for a day. But she had been taught early to believe that
he was dead It was better than to torture her heart with hopes that
could only by the rarest possibility be fulfilled. Now, now, if he
dared to go home to her this night, and tell her that their son was
alive, was found, was coming back to them! Ah! if he only dared!

The sunlight, streaming through the western window, fell upon him as
he walked. It was that golden light that conies from a sun low in the
west, when the days are long, and it illumined his face with a glow
that revealed there the hope, the courage, the honor, the manly
strength that held mastery in his heart.

There was a sudden commotion in the outer office. Men were talking in
an excited manner; some one opened the door, and said:--

"There's been an accident in the breaker mine, Mr. Burnham."

"What kind of an accident?"

"Explosion of fire-damp."

"What about the men?"

"It is not known yet how many are injured."

"Tell James to bring the horses immediately; I will go there."

"James is waiting at the door now with the team, sir."

Mr. Burnham put away a few papers, wrote a hurried letter to his wife,
took his hat and went out and down the steps.

"Send Dr. Gunther up to the breaker at once," he said, as he made
ready to start.

The fleet horses drew him rapidly out through the suburbs and up the
hill, and in less than twenty minutes he had reached the breaker, and
stopped at the mouth of the shaft.

Many people had already assembled, and others were coming from all
directions. Women whose husbands and sons worked in the mine were
there, with pale faces and beseeching words. There was much confusion.
It was difficult to keep the crowd from pressing in against the mouth
of the shaft. Men were busy clearing a space about the opening when
Robert Burnham arrived.

"How did it happen?" he said to the mine boss as he stepped from his
wagon. "Where was it?"

"Up in the north tier, sir. We don't know how it happened. Some one
must 'a' gone in below, where the fire-damp was, with a naked lamp,
an' touched it off; an' then, most like, it run along the roof to the
chambers where the men was a-workin'. I can't account for it in no
other way."

"Has any one come out from there?"

"Yes, Billy Williams. He was a-comin' out when it went off. We found
him up in the headin', senseless. He ain't come to yet."

"And the others?"

"We've tried to git to 'em, sir, but the after-damp is awful, an' we
couldn't stan' it; we had to come out."

"How many men are up there?"

"Five, as we count 'em; the rest are all out."

The carriage came up the shaft, and a half-dozen miners, with dull
eyes and drawn faces, staggered from it, out into the sunlight. It
was a rescuing party, just come from a vain attempt to save their
unfortunate comrades. They were almost choked to death themselves,
with the foul air of the mine. One of them recovered sufficiently to
speak.

"We got a'most there," he gasped; "we could hear 'em a-groanin'; but
the after-damp got--so bad--we--" He reeled and fell, speechless and
exhausted.

The crowd had surged up, trying to hear what the man was saying.
People were getting dangerously near to the mouth of the shaft. Women
whose husbands were below were wringing their hands and crying out
desperately that some one should go down to the rescue.

"Stand back, my friends," said Burnham, facing the people, "stand back
and give these men air, and leave us room to work. We shall do all in
our power to help those who are below. If they can be saved, we shall
save them. Trust us and give us opportunity to do it. Now, men, who
will go down? I feel that we shall get to them this time and bring
them out. Who volunteers?"

A dozen miners stepped forward from the crowd; sturdy, strong-limbed
men, with courage stamped on their dust-soiled faces, and heroic
resolution gleaming from their eyes.

"Good! we want but eight. Take the aprons of the women; give us the
safety-lamps, the oil, the brandy; there, ready; slack off!"

Burnham had stepped on to the carriage with the men who were going
down. One of them cried out to him:--

"Don't ye go, sir! don't ye go! it'll be worth the life o' ye!"

"I'll not ask men to go where I dare not go myself," he said; "slack
off!"

For an instant the carriage trembled in the slight rise that preceded
its descent, and in that instant a boy, a young slender boy, pushed
his way through the encircling crowd, leaped in among the men of the
rescuing party, and with them went speeding down into the blackness.

It was Ralph. After the first moment of surprise his employer
recognized him.

"Ralph!" he exclaimed, "Ralph, why have you done this?"

"I couldn't help it, sir," replied the boy; "I had to come. Please
don't send me back."

"But it's a desperate trip. These men are taking their lives in their
hands."

"I know it, sir; but they ain't one o' them whose life is worth so
little as mine. They've all got folks to live an' work for, an' I
ain't. I'll go where they don't dare. Please let me help!"

The men who were clustered on the carriage looked down on the boy in
mute astonishment. His slight figure was drawn up to its full height;
his little hands were tightly clenched; out from his brown eyes
shone the fire of resolution. Some latent spirit of true knighthood
had risen in his breast, had quenched all the coward in his nature,
and impelled him, in that one moment that called for sacrifice and
courage, to a deed as daring and heroic as any that the knights of old
were ever prompted to perform. To those who looked upon him thus, the
dust and rags that covered him were blotted out, the marks of pain and
poverty and all his childish weaknesses had disappeared, and it seemed
to them almost as though a messenger from God were standing in their
midst.

But Robert Burnham saw something besides this in the child's face; he
saw a likeness to himself that startled him. Men see things in moments
of sublimity to which at all other times their eyes are blinded. He
thought of Craft's story; he thought of the boy's story; he compared
them; a sudden hope seized him, a conviction broke upon his mind like
a flash of light.

This boy was his son. For the moment, all other thoughts, motives,
desires were blotted from his mind. His desperate errand was lost to
sight. The imperilled miners were forgotten.

"Ralph!" he cried, seizing the boy's hand in both of his; "Ralph, I
have found you!"

But the child looked up in wonder, and the men who stood by did not
know what it meant.

The carriage struck the floor of the mine and they all stepped off.
The shock at stopping brought Burnham to himself. This was no time,
no place to recognize the lad and take him to his heart. He would do
that--afterward. Duty, with a stern voice, was calling to him now.

"Men," he said, "are you ready? Here, soak the aprons; Ralph, take
this; now then, come on!"

Up the heading, in single file, they walked swiftly, swinging their
safety-lamps in their hands, or holding them against their breasts.
They knew that up in the chambers their comrades were lying prostrate
and in pain. They knew that the spaces through which they must pass to
reach them were filled with poisonous gases, and that in those regions
death lurked in every "entrance" and behind every "pillar." But they
hurried on, saying little, fearing little, hoping much, as they
plunged ahead into the blackness, on their humane but desperate
errand.

A half-hour later the bell in the engine-room tinkled softly once, and
then rang savagely again and again to "hoist away." The great wheel
turned fast and faster; the piston-rods flew in and out; the iron
ropes hummed as they cut the air; and the people at the shaft's mouth
waited, breathless with suspense, to see what the blackness would
yield up to them. The carriage rose swiftly to the surface. On it four
men, tottering and exhausted, were supporting an insensible body in
their midst. The body was taken into strong arms, and borne hurriedly
to the office of the breaker, a little distance away. Then a boy
staggered off the carriage and fell fainting into the outstretched
arms of Bachelor Billy.

"Ralph!" cried the man, "Ralph, lad! here! brandy for the child!
brandy, quick!"

After a little the boy opened his eyes, and gazed wonderingly at the
people who were looking down on him. Then he remembered what had
happened.

"Mr. Burnham," he whispered, "is--is he alive?"

"Yes, lad; they've took 'im to the office; the doctor's in wi' 'im.
Did ye fin' the air bad?"

The child lay back with a sigh of relief.

"Yes," he said, "very bad. We got to 'em though; we found 'em an'
brought 'em out. I carried the things; they couldn't 'a' got along
'ithout me."

The carriage had gone down again and brought up a load of those who
had suffered from the fire. They were blackened, burned, disfigured,
but living. One of them, in the midst of his agony, cried out:--

"Whaur is he? whaur's Robert Burnham? I'll gi' ma life for his,
an' ye'll save his to 'im. Ye mus' na let 'im dee. Mon! he done
the brawest thing ye ever kenned. He plungit through the belt o'
after-damp ahead o' all o' them, an' draggit us back across it, mon by
mon, an' did na fa' till he pullit the last one ayont it. Did ye ever
hear the like? He's worth a thousan' o' us. I say ye mus' na let 'im
dee!"

Over at the breaker office there was silence. The doctor and his
helpers were there with Robert Burnham, and the door was closed. Every
one knew that, inside, a desperate struggle was going on between life
and death. The story of Burnham's bravery had gone out through the
assembled crowds, and, with one instinct and one hope, all eyes were
turned toward the little room wherein he lay. Men spoke in whispers;
women were weeping softly; every face was set in pale expectancy.
There were hundreds there who would have given all they had on earth
to prolong this noble life for just one day. Still, there was silence
at the office. It grew ominous. A great hush had fallen on the
multitude. The sun dropped down behind the hills, obscured in mist,
and the pallor that precedes the twilight overspread the earth.

Then the office door was opened, and the white-haired doctor came
outside and stood upon the steps. His head was bared and his eyes
were filled with tears. He turned to those who stood near by, and
whispered, sadly:--

"He is dead."




CHAPTER III.

A BRILLIANT SCHEME.


Lackawanna Avenue is the principal thoroughfare in the city of
Scranton. Anthracite Avenue leads from it eastwardly at right angles.

Midway in the second block, on the right side of this last named
street, there stood, twenty years ago, a small wooden building, but
one story in height. It was set well back from the street, and a stone
walk led up to the front door. On the door-post, at the left, was a
sign, in rusty gilt letters, reading:--

  JOHN R. SHARPMAN,
  ATTORNEY AT LAW.

On the morning following his interview with Robert Burnham, Simon
Craft turned in from Anthracite Avenue, shuffled along the walk to the
office door, and stood for a minute examining the sign, and comparing
the name on it with the name on a bit of paper that he held in his
hand.

"That's the man," he muttered; "he's the one;" and he entered at the
half-opened door.

Inside, a clerk sat, busily writing.

"Mr. Sharpman has not come down yet," he said, in answer to Craft's
question. "Take a chair; he'll be here in twenty minutes."

The old man seated himself, and the clerk resumed his writing.

In less than half an hour Sharpman came in. He was a tall, well-built
man, forty years of age, smooth-faced, with a clerical cast of
countenance, easy and graceful in manner, and of pleasant address.

After a few words relating to a certain matter of business, the clerk
said to his employer,--

"This man has been waiting some time to see you, Mr. Sharpman."

The lawyer advanced to Craft, and shook hands with him in a very
friendly way. "Good-morning, sir," he said. "Will you step into my
office, sir?"

He ushered the old man into an inner room, and gave him an easy,
cushioned chair to sit in. Sharpman was nothing, if not gracious. Rich
and poor, alike, were met by him with the utmost cordiality. He had
a pleasant word for every one. His success at the bar was due, in no
small degree, to his apparent frankness and friendliness toward all
men. The fact that these qualities were indeed apparent rather than
real, did not seem to matter; the general effect was the same. His
personal character, so far as any one knew, was beyond reproach. But
his reputation for shrewdness, for sharp practice, for concocting
brilliant financial schemes, was general. It was this latter
reputation that had brought Simon Graft to him.

This morning Sharpman was especially courteous. He regretted that his
visitor had been obliged to wait so long. He spoke of the beautiful
weather. He noticed that the old man was in ill health, and expressed
much sorrow thereat. Finally he said: "Well, my friend, I am at your
service for any favor I can do you."

Craft was not displeased with the lawyer's manner. On the contrary,
he rather liked it. But he was too shrewd and far-sighted to allow
himself to be carried away by it. He proceeded at once to business. He
took from an inner pocket of his coat the paper that Robert Burnham
had given to him the day before, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to
Sharpman.

"I want your opinion of this paper," he said. "Is it drawn up in legal
shape? Is it binding on the man that signed it?"

Sharpman took the paper, and read it carefully through; then he looked
up at Craft in unfeigned surprise.

"My dear sir!" he said, "did you know that Robert Burnham died last
night?"

The old man started from his chair in sudden amazement.

"Died!" he exclaimed. "Robert Burnham--died!"

"Yes; suffocated by foul air in his own mine. It was a dreadful
thing."

Craft dropped into his chair again, his pale face growing each moment
more pale and gaunt, and stared at the lawyer in silence. Finally he
said: "There must be some mistake. I saw him only yesterday. He signed
that paper in my presence as late as four o'clock."

"Very likely," responded Sharpman: "he did not die until after six.
Oh, no! there is no mistake. It was this Robert Burnham. I know his
signature."

The old man sat for another minute in silence, keen disappointment
written plainly on his face. Then a thought came to him.

"Don't that agreement bind his heirs?" he gasped, "or his estate?
Don't somebody have to pay me that money, when I bring the boy?"

The lawyer took the paper up, and re-read it. "No;" he said. "The
agreement was binding only on Burnham himself. It calls for the
production of the boy to him personally; you can't produce anything to
a dead man."

Old Simon settled back in his chair, a perfect picture of gaunt
despair.

Sharpman continued: "This is a strange case, though. I thought that
child of Burnham's was dead. Do you mean to say that the boy is still
living?"

"Yes; that's it. He wasn't even hurt. Of course he's alive. I know
it."

"Can you prove it?"

"Certainly!"

The lawyer gazed at his visitor, apparently in doubt as to the man's
veracity or sanity, and again there was silence.

Finally Craft spoke. Another thought had come to him.

"The boy's mother; she's living, ain't she?"

"Burnham's widow? Yes; she's living."

"Then I'll go to her! I'll make a new contract with her. The money'll
be hers, now. I'll raise on my price! She'll pay it. I'll warrant
she'll pay it! May be it's lucky for me, after all, that I've got her
to deal with instead of her husband!"

Even Sharpman was amazed and disgusted at this exhibition of cruel
greed in the face of death.

"That's it!" continued the old man in an exulting tone; "that's the
plan. I'll go to her. I'll get my money--I'll get it in spite of
death!"

He rose from his chair, and grasped his cane to go, but the excitement
had brought on a severe fit of coughing, and he was obliged to resume
his seat until it was over.

This delay gave Sharpman time to think.

"Wait!" he said, when the old man had finally recovered; "wait a
little. I think I have a plan in mind that is better than yours--one
that will bring you in more cash."

"More cash?" Craft was quiet and attentive in a moment. The word
"cash" had a magical influence over him.

Sharpman arose, closed the door between the two rooms tightly, and
locked it. "Some one might chance to intrude," he explained.

Then he came back, sat down in front of his visitor, and assumed an
attitude of confidence.

"Yes," he said, "more cash; ten times as much."

"Well, what's your plan?" asked the old man, somewhat incredulously.

"Let me tell you first what I know," replied the lawyer. "I know that
Mrs. Burnham believes this boy to be dead; believes it with her whole
mind and heart. You would find it exceedingly difficult to convince
her to the contrary. She would explain away your proofs: she would
fail to recognize the child himself. Such an errand as you propose
would be little better than useless."

Sharpman paused.

"Well, what's your plan?" repeated Craft, impatiently.

The lawyer assumed a still more confidential attitude.

"Listen! Burnham died rich. His wealth will mount well up into the
hundreds of thousands. He leaves a widow and one daughter, a little
girl. This boy, if he is really Burnham's son, is entitled to one
third of the personal property absolutely, to one third of the real
estate at once, and to one fourth of the remainder at his mother's
death. Do you understand?" Old Simon nodded. This was worth listening
to. He began to think that this shrewd lawyer was going to put him
in the way of making a fortune after all. Sharpman continued: "Now,
the boy is a minor. He must have a guardian. The mother would be the
guardian preferred by law; but if, for any reason, she should fail
to recognize the boy as her son, some one else must be appointed. It
will be the duty of the guardian to establish his ward's identity in
case it should be disputed, to sue for his portion of the estate, if
necessary, and to receive and care for it till the boy reaches his
majority. The usual guardian's commission is five per cent, retainable
out of the funds of the estate. Do you see how the management of such
an estate would be a fortune to a guardian, acting within the strict
letter of the law?"

Craft nodded again, but this time with eagerness and excitement. He
saw that a scheme was being opened up to him that outrivalled in
splendid opportunities any he had ever thought of.

After a pause Sharpman asked, glancing furtively at his client:--

"Do you think, Mr. Craft, that you could take upon your shoulders the
duties and responsibilities attendant upon such a trust? In short,
could you act as this boy's guardian?"

"Yes, no doubt of it"; responded the old man, eagerly. "Why, I would
be the very person. I am his nearest friend."

"Very well; that's my opinion, too. Now, then, as to the boy's
identity. There must be no mistake in proving that. What proof have
you? Tell me what you know about it."

Thus requested, Craft gave to the lawyer a detailed account of the
disaster at the bridge, of the finding and keeping of Ralph, of his
mysterious disappearance, and of the prolonged search for him.

"Day before yesterday," continued the old man, "I was watching the
crowds at the circus,--I knew the boy was fond of circuses,--an who
should go by me into the tent but this same Ralph. I made sure he was
the identical person, and yesterday I went to Robert Burnham, and got
that paper."

"Indeed! Where does the boy live? what does he do?"

"Why, it seems that he works at picking slate, in Burnham's own
breaker, and lives with one Bachelor Billy, a simple-minded old
fellow, without a family, who took the boy in when he was abandoned by
the circus."

"Good!" exclaimed the lawyer; "good! we shall have a capital case. But
wait; does Mrs. Burnham know of your interview with her husband, or
about this paper?"

"I don't know. I left the man at his office, alone."

"At what hour?"

"Well, about half-past four, as nearly as I can judge."

"Then it's not at all probable that she knows. He went from his office
directly to the breaker, and died before she could see him."

"Well, how shall we begin?" said Craft, impatiently. "What's the first
thing to be done?" Visions of golden thousands were already floating
before his greedy eyes.

"We shall not begin at all, just yet," said Sharpman. "We'll wait till
the horror and excitement, consequent upon this disaster, have passed
away. It wouldn't do to proceed now; besides, all action should be
postponed, at any rate, until an inventory of the estate shall have
been filed."

A look of disappointment came into old Simon's face. The lawyer
noticed it. "You mustn't be in too much of a hurry," he said. "All
good things come slowly. Now, I'll tell you what I propose to do.
After this excitement has passed over, and the lady's mind has become
somewhat settled, I will go to her myself, and say to her frankly that
you believe her son to be still alive. Of course, she'll not believe
me. Indeed, I shall be very careful to put the matter in such a shape
that she will not believe me. I will say to her, however, that you
have employed me to prosecute your claim for services to the child,
and that it will be necessary to have a guardian appointed against
whom such action may be taken. I will suggest to her that if she will
acknowledge the boy to be her son, she will be the proper person to
act as his guardian. Of course, she will refuse to do either. The rest
is easy. We will go into court with a petition setting forth the facts
in the case, stating that the boy's mother has refused to act as his
guardian, and asking for your appointment as such. Do you see?"

"Oh, yes! that's good; that's very good, indeed."

"But, let me see, though; you'll have to give bonds. There's the
trouble. Got any money, or any rich friends?"

"Neither; I'm very poor, very poor indeed, Mr. Sharpman."

"Ah! that's awkward. We can do nothing without bondsmen. The court
wouldn't let us touch a penny of that fund without first giving good
bonds.".

The look of disappointment and trouble had returned into the old man's
face. "Ain't there some way you could get bonds for me?" he asked,
appealingly.

"Well, yes, I suppose I might procure bondsmen for you; I suppose I
might go on your bond myself. But you see no one cares to risk his
fortune in the hands of a total stranger that way. We don't know you;
we don't know what you might do."

"Oh! I should be honest, Mr. Sharpman, perfectly honest and discreet;
and you should not suffer to the value of a cent, not a single cent."

"No doubt your intentions are good enough, my dear sir, but it
requires great skill to handle so large an estate properly, and a
single error in judgment on your part might cost thousands of dollars.
Good intentions and promises are well enough in their way, but they
are no security against misfortune, you see. I guess we'll have to
drop the scheme, after all."

Sharpman arose and walked the floor in apparent perplexity, while
Craft, resting his hands on his cane, and staring silently at the
lawyer, tried to conceive some plan to prevent this golden opportunity
from eluding his grasp. Finally Sharpman stopped.

"Craft," he said, "I'll tell you what I'll do. If you will give me a
power of attorney to hold and manage all the funds of the trust until
the boy shall have attained his majority, I'll get the necessary bonds
for you."

Craft thought a moment. The proposition did not strike him favorably.
"That would be putting the whole thing out of my hands into yours," he
said.

"Ah! but you would still be the boy's guardian, with right to use all
the money that in your judgment should be necessary, to maintain and
educate him according to his proper station in life. For this purpose
I would agree to pay you three thousand dollars on receipt of the
funds, and three thousand dollars each year thereafter, besides your
guardian's commission, which would amount to eight or ten thousand
dollars at least. I would also agree to pay you a liberal sum for
past services, say two or three thousand dollars. You would have no
responsibility whatever in the matter. I would be liable for any
mistakes you might make. You could use the money as you saw fit. What
do you say?"

The scheme appeared to Simon Craft to be a very brilliant one. He saw
a great fortune in it for himself, if he could only depend on the
lawyer's promises.

"Will you give me a writing to this effect?" he asked.

"Certainly; we shall have a mutual agreement."

"Then I'll do it. You'll get the lion's share I can see that easy
enough; but if you'll do what you say you will, I shan't complain.
Then will I have a right to take the boy again?"

"Yes, after your appointment; but I don't think I would, if I were
you. If he is contented and well off, you had better let him stay
where he is. He might give you the slip again. How old is he now?"

"I don't know exactly; somewhere between ten and twelve, I think."

"Well, his consent to the choice of a guardian is not necessary; but I
think it would be better, under the circumstances, if he would go into
court with us, and agree to your appointment. Do you think he will?"

Old Simon frowned savagely.

"Yes, he will," he exclaimed. "I'll make him do it. I've made him do
harder things than that; it's a pity if I can't make him do what's for
his own benefit now!" He struck the floor viciously with his cane.

"Easy," said the lawyer, soothingly, "easy; I fear the boy has been
his own master too long to be bullied. We shall have to work him in a
different way now. I think I can manage it, though. I'll have him come
down here some day, after we get Mrs. Burnham's refusal to acknowledge
him, and I'll explain matters to him, and show him why it's necessary
that you should take hold of the case. I'll use logic with him, and
I'll wager that he'll come around all right. You must treat boys as
though they were men, Craft. They will listen to reason, and yield to
persuasion, but they won't be bullied, not even into a fortune. By the
way, I don't quite understand how it was, if Burnham was searching
energetically for the boy, and you were searching with as much energy
for the boy's father all those years, that you didn't meet each other
sooner."

Craft looked up slyly from under his shaggy eyebrows.

"May I speak confidentially?" he asked.

"Certainly."

"Well, then, I didn't wear myself out hunting for the boy's friends,
for the first year or two. Time increases the value of some things,
you know--lost children, particularly. I knew there was money back
of the boy by the looks of his clothes. I kept matters pretty well
covered up for a while; allowed that he was my grandson; made him
call me 'Grandpa'; carried the scheme a little too far, and came near
losing everything. Now, do you see?"

Sharpman nodded, and smiled knowingly. "You're a shrewd man, Craft,"
he said.

But the old man's thought had returned to the wealth he believed to
be in store for him. "What's to be done now?" he asked. "Ain't there
something we can start on?"

"No; we can do nothing until after I have seen the widow, and that
will be a couple of months yet at least. In the meantime, you must not
say a word to any one about this matter. The boy, especially, must not
know that you have been here. Come again about the first of September.
In the meantime, get together the evidence necessary to establish the
boy's identity. We mustn't fail in that when it comes to an issue."

"I'll have proof enough, no fear of that. The only thing I don't like
about the business is this waiting. I'm pretty bad here," placing his
bony hand on his chest; "no knowing how long I'll last."

"Oh! you're good for twenty years yet," said Sharpman, heartily,
taking him by the hand, and walking with him to the door. "A--are you
pretty well off for money? Would trifling loan be of any benefit to
you?"

"Why, if you can spare it," said the old man, trying to suppress his
evident pleasure at the offer; "if you can spare it, it would come in
very handy indeed."

Sharpman drew a well-filled wallet from his pocket, took two bills
from it, folded them together, and placed them into Craft's trembling
fingers. "There," he said, "that's all right; we won't say anything
about that till we come into our fortune."

Old Simon pocketed the money, mumbling his thanks as he did so. The
two men shook hands again at the outer door, and Craft trudged down
the avenue, toward the railroad station, his mind filled with visions
of enormous wealth, but his patience sorely tried by the long delay
that he must suffer before his fingers should close upon the promised
money.

Sharpman returned to his office to congratulate himself upon the happy
chance that had placed so rich an opportunity within his grasp. If the
old man's story were true--he proposed to take steps immediately to
satisfy himself upon that point--then he saw no reason why he should
not have the management of a large estate. Of course there would be
opposition, but if he could succeed so far as to get the funds and the
property into his hands, he felt sure that, in one way or another, he
could make a fortune out of the estate before he should be compelled
to relinquish his hold. As for Simon Craft, he should use him so
far as such use was necessary for the accomplishment of his object.
After that he would or would not keep faith with him, as he chose.
And as for Ralph, if he were really Robert Burnham's son, he would
be rich enough at any rate, and if he were not that son he would
not be entitled to wealth. There was no use, therefore, in being
over-conscientious on his account.

It was a brilliant scheme, worth risking a great deal on, both of
money and reputation, Sharpman resolved to make the most of it.




CHAPTER IV.

A SET OF RESOLUTIONS.


It was the morning of the third day after the disaster at Burnham
Shaft. The breaker boys were to go that morning, in a body, to the
mansion of their dead employer to look for the last time on his face.
They had asked that they might be permitted to do this, and the
privilege had been granted.

Grief holds short reign in young hearts, it is true; but the sorrow
in the hearts of these children of toil was none the less sincere.
Had there been any tendency to forget their loss, the solemn faces
and tearful eyes of those who were older than they would have been
a constant reminder.

As Robert Burnham had been universally beloved, so his death was
universally mourned. The miners at Burnham Shaft felt that they had
especial cause for grief. He had a way of coming to the mines and
looking after them and their labor, personally, that they liked. He
knew the names of all the men who worked there, and he had a word of
kindly greeting for each one whom he met. When he came among them out
of the darkness of heading or chamber, there seemed, somehow, to be
more light in the mines, more light and better air, and a sense of
cheeriness and comfort. And, after he had gone, you could hear these
men whistling and singing at their tasks for hours; the mere fact of
his presence had so lightened their labors. The bosses caught this
spirit of friendliness, and there was always harmony at Burnham
Breaker and in the Burnham mines, among all who labored there in any
way whatever. But the screen-room boys had, somehow, come to look upon
this man as their especial friend. He sympathized with them. He seemed
to understand how hard it was for boys like they were to bend all day
above those moving streams of coal. He always had kind words for them,
and devised means to lessen, at times, the rigid monotony of their
tasks. They regarded him with something of that affection which a
child has for a firm, kind parent. Moreover, they looked upon him as a
type of that perfect manhood toward which each, to the extent of his
poor ability, should strive to climb. Even in his death he had set for
them a shining mark of manly bravery. He had died to rescue others. If
he had been a father to them before, he was a hero to them now. But he
was dead. They had heard his gentle voice and seen his kindly smile
and felt the searching tenderness of his brown eyes for the last time.
They would see his face once more; it would not be like him as he was,
but--they would see it.

They had gathered on the grass-plot, on the hill east of the breaker,
under the shadow of a great oak-tree. There were forty of them. They
were dressed in their best clothes; not very rich apparel to be sure,
patched and worn and faded most of it was, but it was their very best.
There was no loud talking among them. There were no tricks being
played; there was no shouting, no laughter. They were all sober-faced,
earnest, and sorrowful.

One of the boys spoke up and said: "Tell you what I think, fellows; I
think we ought to pass res'lutions like what the miners they done."

"Res'lutions," said another, "w'at's them?"

"W'y," said a third, "it's a little piece o' black cloth, like a veil,
w'at you wear on your arm w'en you go to a fun'al."

Then some one proposed that the meeting should first be duly
organized. Many of the boys had attended the miners' meetings and knew
something about parliamentary organization.

"I move't Ralph Buckley, he be chairman," said one.

"I second the move," said another. The motion was put, and Ralph was
unanimously elected as chairman.

"They ain't no time to make any speech," he said, backing up against
the tree in order to face the assemblage. "We got jest time to 'lect a
sec'etary and draw out some res'lutions."

"I move't Jimmie Donnelly be sec'etary."

"I second Jimmie Donnelly."

"All you who want Jimmie Donnelly for sec'etary, hol' up your right
han's an' say yi."

There was a chorus of yi's.

"I move't Ed. Williams be treasher."

Then the objector rose. "Aw!" he said, "we don't want no treasher.
W'at we want a treasher for? we ain't goin' to spen' no money."

"You got to have a treasher," broke in a youthful Gushing, "you got to
have one, or less your meetin' won't be legal, nor your res'lutions,
neither!"

The discussion was ended abruptly by some one seconding the nomination
of Ed. Williams, and the motion was immediately put and carried.

"Now," said another young parliamentarian, "I move't the chairman pint
out a committee of three fellows to write the res'lutions."

This motion was also seconded, put, and carried, and Ralph designated
three boys in the company, one of whom, Joe Foster, had more than an
ordinary reputation for learning, as a committee on resolutions; and,
while they went down to the breaker office for pen, ink, and paper,
the meeting took a recess.

It was, indeed, a task for those three unlearned boys to express in
writing, their grief consequent upon the death of their employer,
and their sympathy for his living loved ones, but they performed it.
There was some discussion concerning a proper form for beginning. One
thought they should begin by saying, "Know all men by these presents."

"But we ain't got no presents to give 'em," said another, "an' if we
had it ain't no time to give any presents."

Joe Foster had attended the meeting at which the resolutions by the
miners were adopted, and after recalling, as nearly as possible, the
language in which they were drawn, it was decided to begin:--"We, the
breaker boys, of Burnham Breaker, in mass meeting met"--

After that, with the exception of an occasional dispute concerning the
spelling of a word, they got on very well, and came, finally, to the
end.

"You two write your names on to it," said Jack Murphy; "I won't put
mine down; two's enough."

"Oh! we've all got to sign it," said Joe Foster; "a majoriky ain't
enough to make a paper like this stan' law."

"Well, I don't b'lieve I'll sign it," responded Jack; "I don't like
the res'lutions very well, anyway."

"Why not? they're jest as you wanted 'em--oh, I know! you can't write
your name.

"Well, I guess I could, maybe, if I wanted to, but I don't want to;
I'm 'fraid I'd spile the looks o' the paper. You's fellows go ahead
an' sign it."

"I'll tell you what to do," said Joe; "I'll write your name jest as
good as I can, an' then you can put your solemn cross on top of it,
an' that'll make it jest as legal as it can be got."

So they arranged it in that way. Joe signed Jack Murphy's name in his
very best style, and then Jack took the pen and under Joe's explicit
directions, drew one line horizontally through the name and another
line perpendicularly between the two words of it, and Joe wrote
above it: "his solem mark." This completed the resolutions, and
the committee hurried back with them to the impatient assembly.
The meeting was called to order again, and Joe Foster read the
resolutions.

"That's jest the way I feel about it," said Ralph, "jest the way that
paper reads. He couldn't 'a' been no better to us, no way. Boys," he
continued, earnestly, forgetting for the time being his position, "do
you 'member 'bout his comin' into the screen-room last Tuesday an'
givin' us each a quarter to go t' the circus with? Well, I'd cut my
han' that day on a piece o' coal, an' it was a-bleedin' bad, an' he
see it, an' he asked me what was the matter with it, an' I told 'im,
an' he took it an' washed it off, he did, jest as nice an' careful;
an' then what d'ye think he done? W'y he took 'is own han'kerchy, his
own han'kerchy, mind ye, an' tore it into strips an' wrapped it roun'
my han' jest as nice--jest as nice--"

And here the memory of this kindness became so vivid in Ralph's mind
that he broke down and cried outright.

"It was jes' like 'im," said one in the crowd; "he was always a-doin'
sumpthin' jes' like that. D'ye 'member that time w'en I froze my ear,
an' he give me money to buy a new cap with ear-laps on to it?"

The recital of this incident called from another the statement of some
generous deed, and, in the fund of kindly reminiscence thus aroused,
the resolutions came near to being wholly forgotten. But they were
remembered, finally, and were called up and adopted, and it was agreed
that the chairman should carry them and present them to whoever
should be found in charge at the house. Then, with Ralph and Joe
Foster leading the procession, they started toward the city. Reaching
Laburnum Avenue, they marched down that street in twos until they came
to the Burnham residence. There was a short consultation there, and
then they all passed in through the gate to the lawn, and Ralph and
Joe went up the broad stone steps to the door. A kind-faced woman
met them there, and Ralph said: "We've come, if you please, the
breaker boys have come to--to--" The woman smiled sweetly, and said:
"Yes, we've been expecting you; wait a moment and I will see what
arrangements have been made for you."

Joe Foster nudged Ralph with his elbow, and whispered:--

"The res'lutions, Ralph, the res'lutions; now's the time; give 'em to
her."

But Ralph did not hear him. His mind was elsewhere. As his eyes
grew accustomed to the dim light in the hall, and he saw the
winding staircase with its richly carved posts, the beauty of the
stained-glass windows, the graceful hangings, the broad doors, the
pictures, and the flowers, there came upon him a sense of strange
familiarity with the scene. It seemed to him as though sometime,
somewhere, he had seen it, known it all before. The feeling was so
sudden and so strong that it made him faint and dizzy.

The kind-featured woman saw the pallor on his face and the tremor on
his lips, and led him to a chair. She ascribed his weakness to sorrow
and excitement, and the dread of looking on a dead face.

"Poor boy!" she said. "I don't wonder at it; he was more than generous
to us all."

But Joe, afraid that the resolutions he had labored on with so much
diligence would be forgotten, spoke of them again to Ralph.

"Oh, yes," said Ralph, with a wan smile, "oh, yes! here's the
res'lutions. That's the way the breaker boys feel--the way it says in
this paper; an' we want Mrs. Burnham to know."

"I'll take it to her," said the woman, receiving from Ralph's hands
the awkwardly folded and now sadly soiled paper. "You will wait here a
moment, please."

She passed up the broad staircase, by the richly colored window at the
landing, and was lost to sight; while the two boys, sitting in the
spacious hall, gazed, with wondering eyes, upon the beauty which
surrounded them.

The widow of Robert Burnham sat in the morning-room of her desolated
home, talking calmly with her friends.

After the first shock incident upon her husband's death had passed
away, she had made no outcry, she grew quiet and self-possessed, she
was ready for any consultation, gave all necessary orders, spoke
of her dead husband's goodness to her with a smile on her face, and
looked calmly forth into the future. The shock of that terrible
message from the mines, two days ago, had paralyzed her emotional
nature, and left her white-faced and tearless.

She had a smile and a kind word for every one as before; she had eaten
mechanically; but she had lain with wide-open eyes all night, and
still no one had seen a single tear upon her cheeks. This was why they
feared for her; they said,

  "She must weep, or she will die."

Some one came into the room and spoke to her.

"The breaker boys, who asked to come this morning, are here."

"Let them come in," she said, "and pass through the parlors and look
upon him; and let them be treated with all kindness and courtesy."

"They have brought this paper, containing resolutions passed by them,
which they would like to have you read."

Mrs. Burnham took the paper, and asked the woman to wait while she
read it. There was something in the fact that these boys had passed
resolutions of sympathy that touched her heart. She unfolded the
soiled paper and read:--

    Wee, the braker Boys of burnham braker in mass meeting met Did
    pass thease res'lutions. first the braker Boys is all vary sory
    indede Cause mister Burnham dide.

    second Wee have A grate dele of sympathy for his wife and his
    little girl, what has got to get along now without him. third wee
    are vary Proud of him cause he dide a trying to save John Welshes
    life and pat Morys life and the other mens lifes. fourth he was
    vary Good indede to us Boys, and they ain't one of us but what
    liked him vary mutch and feel vary bad. fift Wee dont none of us
    ixpect to have no moar sutch good Times at the braker as wee did
    Befoar. sixt Wee aint scollers enougth to rite it down just what
    wee feel, but wee feel a hunderd times more an what weave got rote
    down.

    JOE FOSTER, comity,

    PAT DONNELLY, comity,

    his solem mark

    JACK + MURFY comity.

The widow laid aside the paper, put her face in her hands, and began
to weep. There was something in the honest, unskilled way in which
these boys had laid their hearts open before her in this time of
general sorrow, that brought the tears into her eyes at last, and for
many minutes they flowed without restraint. Those who were with her
knew that the danger that had menaced her was passed.

After a little she lifted her head.

"I will see the boys," she said. "I will thank them in person. Tell
them to assemble in the hall."

The message was given, and the boys filed into the broad hall, and
stood waiting, hats in hand, in silence and in awe.

Down the wide staircase the lady came, holding her little girl by the
hand, and at the last step they halted. As Ralph looked up and saw her
face, pallid but beautiful, and felt the influence of her gracious yet
commanding presence, there came over him again that strange sensation
as of beholding some familiar sight. It seemed to him that sometime,
somewhere, he had not only seen her and known her, but that she had
been very close to him. He felt an almost uncontrollable impulse to
cry out to her for some word, some look of recognition. Then she began
to speak. He held himself firmly by the back of a chair, and listened
as to a voice that had been familiar to him in some state of being
prior to his life on earth.

"Boys," said the lady, "I come to thank you in person for your
assurances of sympathy for me and for my little daughter, and for your
veneration for the dead. I know that his feeling toward you was very
kind, that he tried to lighten your labors as he could, that he hoped
for you that you would all grow into strong, good men. I do not wonder
that you sorrow at his loss. This honest, simple tribute to his memory
that you have given to me has touched me deeply.

"I cannot hope to be as close to you as he was, but from this time
forth I shall be twice your friend. I want to take each one of you by
the hand as you pass by, in token of our friendship, and of my faith
in you, and my gratitude toward you."

So, one by one, as they passed into the room beyond, she held each
boy's hand for a moment and spoke to him some kind word, and every
heart in her presence went out to her in sympathy and love.

Last of all came Ralph. As leader of the party he had thought it
proper to give precedence to the rest. The lady took his hand as he
came by, the same hand that had received her husband's tender care;
but there was something in his pallid, grief-marked face, in the brown
eyes filled with tears, in the sensitive trembling of the delicate
lips, as she looked down on him, that brought swift tenderness for him
to her heart. She bent over and lifted up his face to hers, and kissed
his lips, and then, unable longer to restrain her emotion, she turned
and hastened up the stairway, and was lost to sight.

For many minutes Ralph stood still, in gratified amazement. It was
the first time in all his life, so far as memory served him, that any
one had kissed him. And that this grief-stricken lady should be the
first--it was very strange, but very beautiful, indeed. He felt that
by that kiss he had been lifted to a higher level, to a clearer, purer
atmosphere, to a station where better things than he had ever done
before would be expected of him now; he felt, indeed, as though it
were the first long reach ahead to attain to such a manhood as was
Robert Burnham's. The repetition of this name in his mind brought him
to himself, and he turned into the parlor just as the last one of the
other boys was passing out. He hurried across the room to look upon
the face of his friend and employer. It was not the unpleasant sight
that he had feared it might be. The dead man's features were relaxed
and calm. A smile seemed to be playing about the lips. The face had
all its wonted color and fulness, and one might well have thought,
looking on the closed eye-lids, that he lay asleep.

Standing thus in the presence of death, the boy had no fear. His only
feeling was one of tenderness and of deep sorrow. The man had been so
kind to him in life, so very kind. It seemed almost as though the lips
might part and speak to him. But he was dead; this was his face, this
his body; but he, himself, was not here. Dead! The word struck harshly
on his mind and roused him from his reverie. He looked up; the boys
had all gone, only the kind-faced woman stood there with a puzzled
expression in her eyes. She had chanced to mark the strong resemblance
between the face of the dead man and that of the boy who looked upon
it; a resemblance so striking that it startled her. In the countenance
of Robert Burnham as he had looked in life, one might not have noticed
it, but--

  "Sometimes, in a dead man's face,
    To those that watch it more and more,
    A likeness, hardly seen before,
  Comes out, to some one of his race."

It was so here. The faces of the dead man and of the living boy were
the faces of father and son.

Ralph turned away, at last, from the lifeless presence before him,
from the searching eyes of the woman, from the hall with its dim
suggestions of something in the long ago, and went out into the
street, into the sunlight, into the busy world around him; but from
that time forth a shadow rested on his young life that had never
darkened it before,--a shadow whose cause he could not fathom and
whose gloom he could not dispel.




CHAPTER V.

IN SEARCH OF A MOTHER.


Three months had gone by since the accident at Burnham Shaft. They
were summer months, full of sunshine and green landscapes and singing
birds and blossoming flowers and all things beautiful. But in the
house from which the body of Robert Burnham had been carried to the
grave there were still tears and desolation. Not, indeed, as an
outward show; Margaret Burnham was very brave, and hid her grief
under a calm exterior, but there were times, in the quiet of her own
chamber, when loneliness and sorrow came down upon her as a burden
too great for her woman's heart to bear. Still, she had her daughter
Mildred, and the child's sweet ways and ceaseless chatter and fond
devotion charmed her, now and then, into something almost like
forgetfulness. She often sighed, and said: "If only Ralph had lived,
that I might have both my children with me now!"

One morning, toward the middle of September, Lawyer John H. Sharpman
rang the bell at the door of the Burnham mansion, sent his card up to
Mrs. Burnham, and seated himself gracefully in an easy-chair by the
parlor window to wait for her appearance.

She came soon and greeted him with gracious dignity. He was very
courteous to her; he apologized for coming, in this way, without
previous announcement, but said that the nature of his errand seemed
to render it necessary.

"I am sure no apology is required," she replied; "I shall be pleased
to listen to you."

"Then I will proceed directly to the matter in hand. You remember, of
course, the Cherry Brook disaster and what occurred there?"

"I shall never forget it," she said.

"I have a strange thing to tell you about that, an almost incredible
thing. An old man has visited me at my office, within the last few
days, who claims to have saved your child from that wreck, to have
taken him to his own home and cared for him, and to know that he is
living to-day."

The woman rose from her chair, with a sudden pallor on her face, too
greatly startled, for the moment, to reply.

"I beg you to be calm, madam," the lawyer said; "I will try to speak
of the matter as gently as possible."

"Ralph!" she exclaimed, "my Ralph! did you say that he is living?"

"So this old man says. I am simply telling you his story. He seems to
be very much in earnest, though I am bound to say that his appearance
is somewhat against him."

"Who is he? Bring him here! I will question him myself. Bring the
child to me also; why did you not bring the child?"

"My dear lady, I beg that you will be calm; if you will allow me I
will explain it all, so far as lies in my power."

"But if my boy is living I must see him; I cannot wait! It is cruel to
keep him from me!"

Sharpman began to fear that he had injured his cause by presenting the
case too strongly. At this rate the lady would soon believe, fully,
that her son had been saved and could be restored to her. With such a
belief in her mind the success of his scheme would be impossible. It
would never do to let her go on in this way; he began to remonstrate.

"But, madam, I am telling to you only what this man has told to me. I
have no means of proving his veracity, and his appearance, as I have
said, is against him. I have agreed to assist him only in case he is
able to establish, beyond question, the boy's identity. Thus far his
statements have not been wholly satisfactory."

Mrs. Burnham had grown more calm. The startling suddenness of
the proposition that Ralph was living had, for the time being,
overmastered her. Now she sank back into her chair, with pale face,
controlling her emotion with an effort, trying to give way to reason.

"What does he say?" she asked. "What is this old man's story?"

Sharpman repeated, in substance, old Simon's account of the rescue,
giving to it, however, an air of lightness and improbability that it
had not had before.

"It is possible," he added, "that the evidence you have of the child's
death is sufficient to refute this man's story completely. On what
facts do you rest your belief, if I am at liberty to ask?"

"The proofs," she replied, "have seemed to us to be abundant.
Neither Mr. Burnham nor myself were in a condition to make personal
investigation until some days had elapsed from the time of the
accident, and then the wreck had been cleared away. But we learned
beyond doubt that there was but one other child in the car, a bright,
pretty boy of Ralph's age, travelling with his grandfather, and that
this child was saved. No one had seen Ralph after the crash; no
article of clothing that he wore has ever been found; there were only
a few trinkets, fireproof, that he carried in the pocket of his skirt,
discovered in the ashes of the wreck."

The lady put her hands to her eyes as if to shut out the memory of
some dread sight.

"And I presume you made diligent inquiry afterward?" questioned the
lawyer.

"Oh, yes! of the most searching nature, but no trace could be found
of our child's existence. We came to the firm belief, long ago, that
he died that night. The most that we have dared to hope is that his
sufferings were not great nor prolonged."

"It seems incredible," said Sharpman, "that the child could have been
saved and cared for, without your knowledge, through so long a period.
But the man appears to be in earnest, his story is a straightforward
one, and I feel it to be my duty to examine into it. Of course, his
object is to get gain. He wants compensation for his services in the
matter of rescuing and caring for the child. He seems also to be very
desirous that the boy's rights should be established and maintained,
and has asked me to take the matter in hand in that respect as well.
Are you prepared to say, definitely, that no evidence would induce you
to believe your child to be living?"

"Oh, no! not that. But I should want something very strong in the
way of proof. Let this man come and relate his story to me. If it is
false, I think I should be able to detect it."

"I advised him to do so, but, aside from his appearance, which is
hardly in harmony with these surroundings, I think he would prefer not
to hold a personal conference with the boy's friends. I may as well
give you my reason for that belief. The old man says that the boy ran
away from him two or three years ago, and I have inferred that the
flight was due, partially, at least, to unkind treatment on Craft's
part. I believe he is now afraid to talk the matter over with you
personally, lest you should rebuke him too severely for his conduct
toward the child and his failure to take proper care of him. He
is anxious that all negotiations should be conducted through his
attorney. Rather sensitive, he is, for a man of his general stamp."

"And did the child return to him?" asked the lady, anxiously, not
heeding the lawyer's last remark.

"Oh, no! The old man searched the country over for him. He did not
find him until this summer."

"And where was he found?"

"Here, in Scranton."

"In Scranton! That is strange. Is the boy here still?"

"He is."

"Where does he live? who cares for him?"

Sharpman had not intended to give quite so much information, but he
could not well evade these questions and at the same time appear to be
perfectly honest in the matter, so he answered her frankly:

"He lives with one William Buckley, better known as 'Bachelor Billy.'
He works in the screen-room at Burnham Breaker."

"Indeed! by what name is he known?"

"By your son's name--Ralph."

"Ralph, the slate-picker! Do you mean that boy?"

It was Sharpman's turn to be surprised.

"Do you know him?" he asked, quickly.

"I do," she replied. "My husband first told me of him; I have seen him
frequently; I have talked with him so lately as yesterday."

"Ah, indeed! I am very glad you know the boy. We can talk more
intelligently concerning him."

"Do I understand you, then, to claim that Ralph, the slate-picker, is
my son? this boy and no other?"

"That is my client's statement, madam."

The lady leaned back wearily in her chair.

"Then I fear you have come upon a futile errand, Mr. Sharpman," she
said.

But, from the lawyer's stand-point, it began to look as if the errand
was to be successful. He felt that he could speak a little more
strongly now of Ralph's identity with Mrs. Burnham's son without
endangering his cause.

"Can you remember," he said, "nothing about the lad's appearance
that impressed you--now that you know the claim set up for hi--that
impressed you with a sense of his relationship to you?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing whatever. The boy is a bright, frank, manly
fellow; I have taken much interest in him from the first. His sorrow
at the time of my husband's death touched me very deeply. I have been
several times since then to look after his comfort and happiness. I
saw and talked with him yesterday, as I have already told you. But he
is not my son, sir, he is not my son."

"Pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a
child's appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch."

"I appreciate that fact, but I recall no resemblance whatever. My baby
had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a
glow of health and happiness in his face. This lad is different, very
different. There could not have been so great a change. Oh, no, sir!
your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; I am sure he is not."

Sharpman was rejoiced. Everything was working now exactly according to
his plan. He thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly.

"But my client," he said, "appears to be perfectly sincere in his
belief. He will doubtless desire me to institute legal proceedings to
recover for the boy his portion of Robert Burnham's estate."

"If you can recover it," she said, calmly, "I shall transfer it to
the child most cheerfully. I take it, however, that you must first
establish his identity as an heir?"

"Certainly."

"And do you think this can be done against my positive testimony?"

"Perhaps not; that remains to be seen. But I do not desire to
contemplate such a contingency. My object, my sole object, is to
obtain a harmonious settlement of this matter outside of the courts.
That is why I am here in person. I had hoped that I might induce you
to acknowledge the boy as your son, to agree to set off his interest
in his father's estate, and to reimburse my client, to some extent,
for his care and services. This is my only wish in the matter, I
assure you."

"Why, as to that," she replied, "I am willing to recognize services
performed for any one; and if this old man has rescued and cared for
the boy, even though he is not my son--I have enough; if the man is in
want, I will help him, I will give him money. But wait! did you say he
had been cruel to the child? Then I withdraw my offer. I have no pity
for the harsh task-masters of young children. Something to eat, to
drink, to wear,--I will give him that,--nothing more."

"I am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge
this boy as your son?" asked the lawyer, rising.

"With the evidence that I now have," she said, "I do. I should be glad
to assist him; I have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy,
and I love him. But I can do nothing more, sir,--nothing more."

"I regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit," said Sharpman,
bowing himself toward the door. "I trust, I sincerely trust, that
whatever I may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf
of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no
bitterness of feeling on your part."

"Certainly not," she replied, standing in matronly dignity. "You could
do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is Ralph
Burnham. If I could believe that he is really my son, I would take him
to my heart with inexpressible joy. Without that belief I should be
false to my daughter's interest to compel her to share with a stranger
not only her father's estate but also her mother's affection."

"Madam, I have the most profound respect for your conscience and your
judgment. I trust that no meeting between us will be less pleasant
than this one has been. I wish you good-morning!"

"Good-morning, sir!"

Sharpman bowed himself gracefully out, and walked briskly down the
street, with a smile on his face. The execution of his scheme had met,
thus far, with a success which he had hardly anticipated.

       *       *       *       *       *

Every one about Burnham Breaker knew Bachelor Billy. No one ever knew
any ill of him. He was simple and unlearned, but his heart was very
large, and he was honest and manly to the marrow of his bones. He
had no ties of family or of kin, but every one who knew him was his
friend; every child who saw him smiled up instinctively into his face;
he was a brother to all men. Gray spots were coming in his hair, his
shoulders were bowed with toil, and his limbs were bent with disease,
but the kind look never vanished from his rugged face, and the kind
word never faltered on his lips. He went to his task at Burnham
Breaker in the early morning, he toiled all day, and came home at
night, happy and contented with his lot.

His work was at the head of the shaft, at the very topmost part of the
towering breaker. When a mine car came up, loaded with coal, it was
his duty to push it to the dump, some forty feet away, to tip it till
the load ran out, and then to push it back to the waiting carriage.
Michael Maloney had been Billy's assistant here, in other years; but,
one day, Michael stepped back, inadvertently, into the open mouth of
the shaft, and, three minutes later, his mangled remains were gathered
up at the foot. Billy knew that Michael's widow was poor, with a
family of small children to care for, so he came and hired from her
a part of her cottage to live in, and took his meals with her, and
paid her generously. To this house he had taken Ralph. It was not an
elegant home, to be sure, but it was a home where no harsh word was
spoken from year's end to year's end; and to Ralph, fresh from his
dreadful life with Simon Craft, this was much, oh! very much, indeed.
The boy was very fond of "Uncle Billy," as he called him, and the days
and nights he spent with him were not unhappy ones. But since the day
when Mrs. Burnham turned his face to hers, and kissed him on his lips,
there had been a longing in his heart for something more; a longing
which, at first, he could not quite define, but which grew and
crystallized, at last, into a strong desire to merit and possess the
fond affection, and to live in the sweet presence, of a kind and
loving mother. He had always wanted a mother, ever since he could
remember. The thought of one had always brought a picture of perfect
happiness to his mind. But never, until now, had that want reached so
great proportions. It had come to be the leading motive and ambition
of his life. He yearned for mother-love and home affection, with an
intensity as passionate, a desire as deep, as ever stirred within the
heart of man. He had not revealed his longing to Bachelor Billy. He
feared that he might think he was discontented and unhappy, and he
would not have hurt his Uncle Billy's feelings for the world. So the
summer days went by, and he kept his thought in this matter, as much
as possible, to himself.

It had come to be the middle of September. There had been a three days
rain, which had so freshened the parched grass and checked the fading
of the leaves, that one might readily have thought the summer had
returned to bring new foliage and flowers, and to deck the earth for
still another season with its covering of green.

But it had cleared off cold.

"It'd be nice to have a fire to-night, Uncle Billy," said Ralph, as
the two were walking home together in the twilight, from their day's
work at the breaker.

"Wull, lad," was the reply, "ye ha' the wood choppit for it, ye can
mak' un oop."

So, after supper, Ralph built a wood fire in the little rude grate,
and Billy lighted his clay pipe, and they both drew their chairs up
before the comfortable blaze, and watched it while they talked.

It was the first fire of the season, and they enjoyed it. It seemed to
bring not only warmth but cheer.

"Ain't this nice, Uncle Billy?" said Ralph, after quite a long
silence. "Seems kind o' home-like an' happy, don't it?"

"Ye're richt, lad! Gin a mon has a guid fire to sit to, an' a guid
pipe o' 'bacca to pull awa' on, what more wull ye? eh, Ralph!"

"A comfortable room like this to stay in, Uncle Billy," replied the
boy, looking around on the four bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and
the rude furniture of the room, all bright and glowing now in the
light of the cheerful fire.

"Oh! the room's guid enook, guid enook," responded the man, without
removing the pipe from his mouth.

"An' a nice bed, like ours, to sleep in."

"True for ye lad; tired bones rest well in a saft bed."

"An' plenty to eat, too, Uncle Billy; that's a good thing to have."

"Richt again, Ralph! richt again!" exclaimed Billy, enthusiastically,
pushing the burning tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. "An' the
Widow Maloney, she do gi' us 'mazin' proper food, now, don't she? D'ye
min' that opple pie we had for sooper, lad?"

"Yes, that was good," said Ralph, gazing absently into the fire.
"They's only one thing more we need, Uncle Billy, an' that's somebody
to love us. Not but what you an' me cares a good deal for each other,"
added Ralph, apprehensively, as the man puffed vigorously away at his
pipe, "but that ain't it. I mean somebody, some woman, you know, 'at'd
kiss us an' comfort us an' be nice to us that way."

Billy turned and gazed contemplatively at Ralph. "Been readin' some
more o' them love-stories?" he asked, smiling behind a cloud of smoke.

"No, I ain't, an' I don't mean that kind. I mean your mother or your
sister or your wife--it'd be jes' like as though you had a wife, you
know, Uncle Billy."

Again, the man puffed savagely at his pipe before replying.

"Wull," he said at last, "na doot it'd be comfortin' to have a guid
weef to care for ye; but they're an awfu' trooble, Ralph, women
is,--an awfu' trooble."

"But you don't know, Uncle Billy; you ain't had no 'xperience."

"No more am I like to have. I'm a gittin' too auld now. I could na get
me a weef an' I wanted one. Hoot, lad! think o' your Uncle Billy wi' a
weef to look after; it's no' sensiba, no' sensiba," and the man took
his pipe from his mouth and indulged in a hearty burst of laughter at
the mental vision of himself in matrimonial chains.

"But then," persisted Ralph, "you'd have such a nice home, you know;
an' somebody to look glad an' smile an' say nice things to you w'en
you come home from work o' nights. Uncle Billy, I'd give a good deal
if I had it, jes' to have a home like other boys has, an' mothers an'
fathers an' sisters an' all that."

"Wull, lad, I've done the bes' I could for ye, I've--"

"Oh, Uncle Billy!" interrupted the boy, rising and laying his hand
on the man's shoulder affectionately, "you know I don't mean that;
I don't mean but what you've been awful good to me; jes' as good as
any one ever could be; but it's sumpthin' dif'rent from that 'at I
mean. I'm thinkin' about a home with pirty things in it, books, an'
pictures, an' cushions, the way women fix 'em you know, an'--an' a
mother; I want a mother very much; I think it'd be the mos' beautiful
thing in the world to have a mother. You've had one, ain't you, Uncle
Billy?"

The man's face had taken on a pleased expression when Ralph began with
his expostulation, but, as the boy continued, the look changed into
one of sadness.

"Yes, lad," he said, "an' a guid mither she waur too. She died an'
went to heaven it's mony a year sin', but I still min' the sweet
way she had wi' me. Ye're richt, laddie, there's naught like a
blessed mither to care for ye--an' ye never had the good o' one
yoursel'"--turning and looking at the boy, with an expression of
wondering pity on his face, as though that thought had occurred to
him now for the first time.

"No, I never had, you know; that's the worst of it. If I could only
remember jest the least bit about my mother, it wouldn't seem so bad,
but I can't remember nothing, not nothing."

"Puir lad! puir lad! I had na thocht o' that afoor. But, patience,
Ralph, patience; mayhap we'll find a mither for ye yet."

"Oh, Uncle Billy! if we could, if we only could! Do you know,
sometimes w'en I go down town, an' walk along the street, an' see
the ladies there, I look at ev'ry one I meet, an' w'en a real nice
beautiful one comes along, I say to myself, 'I wisht that lady was my
mother,' an' w'en some other one goes by, I say, 'I wonder if that
ain't my mother.' It don't do no good, you know, but it's kind o'
comfortin'."

"Puir lad!" repeated Billy, putting his arm around the boy and drawing
him up closer to his chair, "Puir lad!"

"You 'member that night I come home a-cryin', an' I couldn't tell w'at
the matter was? Well, it wasn't nothin' but that. I come by a house
down there in the city, w'ere they had it all lighted up, an' they
wasn't no curtains acrost the windows, an' you could look right in.
They was a havin' a little party there; they was a father an' a mother
an' sisters and brothers an' all; an' they was all a-laughin' an'
a-playin' an' jest as happy as they could be. An' they was a boy there
'at wasn't no bigger'n me, an' his mother come an' put her arms aroun'
his neck an' kissed him. It didn't seem as though I could stan' it,
Uncle Billy, I wanted to go in so bad an' be one of 'em. An' then it
begun to rain, an' I had to come away, an' I walked up here in the
dark all alone, an' w'en I got here they wasn't nothin' but jest one
room, an' nobody but you a-waitin' for me, an'--no! now, Uncle Billy,
don't! I don't mean nothin' like that--you've been jest as good to me
as you could be; you've been awful good to me, al'ays! but it ain't
like, you know; it ain't like havin' a home with your own mother."

"Never min', laddie; never min'; ye s'all have a hame, an' a mither
too some day, I mak' na doot,--some day."

There was silence for a time, then Bachelor Billy continued:--

"Gin ye had your choice, lad, what kin' o' a mither would ye choose
for yoursel'?"

"Oh! I don't know--yes, I do too!--it's wild, I know it's wild, an'
I hadn't ought to think of it; but if I could have jest the mother I
want, it'd be--it'd be Mrs. Burnham. There! now, don't laugh, Uncle
Billy; I know it's out o' all reason; she's very rich, an' beautiful,
an' everything; but if I could be her boy for jest one week--jest one
week, Uncle Billy, I'd--well, I'd be willin' to die."

"Ye mak' high choice, Ralph, high choice; but why not? ye're as like
to find the mither in high places as in low, an' liker too fra my way
o' thinkin'. Choose the bes', lad, choose the bes'!"

"But she's so good to us," continued the boy, "an' she talks so nice
to us. You 'member the time I told you 'bout, w'en we breaker boys
went down there, all of us, an' she cried kin' o' soft, an' stooped
down an' kissed me? I shouldn't never forgit that if I live to be a
thousan' years old. An' jes' think of her kissin' me that way ev'ry
night,--think of it Uncle Billy! an' ev'ry mornin' too, maybe;
wouldn't that be--be--" and Ralph, at a loss for a fitting wor to
represent such bliss as that, simply clasped his hands together and
gazed wistfully into the fire. After a minute or two he went on: "She
'membered it, too. I was 'fraid she'd never know which boy it was she
kissed, they was so many of us there; but she did, you know, an' she's
been to see me, an' brought me things, ain't she? an' promised to help
me find out about myself jest the same as Mr. Burnham did. Oh dear! I
hope she won't die now, like he did--Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy!"
as a sudden thought struck in on the boy's mind, "if she was--if Mrs.
Burnham _was_ my mother, then Mr. Burnham would 'a' been my father
wouldn't he?"

"Na doot, lad, na doot."

"Robert Burnham--would 'a' been--my father. Oh!" The boy drew himself
up to his full height and stood gazing into the fire in proud
contemplation of such overwhelming happiness and honor.

There was a knock at the door. Ralph went and opened it, and a young
man stepped in.

"Ah! good evening!" he said. "Does a man by the name of Buckley live
here? William Buckley?"

"That's my name," responded Billy, rising from his chair.

"And are you Ralph?" asked the young man, turning to the boy.

"Yes, sir, that's my name, too," was the quick reply.

"Well, Ralph, can you take a little walk with me this evening, as far
as Lawyer Sharpman's office?"

"Wha' for do ye want the lad?" asked Billy, advancing and placing a
chair for the stranger to sit in.

"Well, to speak confidentially, I believe it's something about his
parentage."

"Who his father an' mother waur?"

"Yes."

"Then he s'all go wi' ye if he like. Ralph, ye can put on the new
jacket an' go wi' the mon."

The boy's heart beat tumultuously as he hurried on his best clothes.

At last! at last he was to know. Some one had found him out. He was no
longer "nobody's child."

He struggled into his Sunday coat, pulled his cap on his head, and,
in less than ten minutes he was out on the road with the messenger,
hurrying through the frosty air and the bright moonlight, toward
Sharpman's office.




CHAPTER VI.

BREAKING THE NEWS.


Simon Craft and Lawyer Sharpman were sitting together in the rear room
of the latter's law office. The window-shades were closely drawn,
shutting out the mellow light of the full moon, which rested brightly
and beautifully on all objects out of doors.

The gas jet, shaded by a powerful reflector, threw a disk of light
on the round table beneath it, but the corners of the room were in
shadow. It was in a shaded corner that Craft was sitting, resting his
folded arms on his cane, while Sharpman, seated carelessly by the
table, was toying with a pencil. There were pleased looks on the faces
of both men; but old Simon seemed to have grown thinner and feebler
during the summer months, and his cough troubled him greatly.

Sharpman was saying: "If we can succeed in managing the boy, now,
as well as we have managed the mother, I think we are all right. I
somewhat fear the effect of your presence on him, Craft, but he may
as well see you to-night as later. You must keep cool, and be gentle;
don't let him think you are here for any purpose but his good."

"Oh! you may trust me, Mr. Sharpman," responded the old man, "you may
trust me. I shall get into the spirit of the scheme very nicely."

"What kind of a boy is he, any way? Pretty clear-headed?"

"Well, yes, middling; but as obstinate as a mule. When he gets his
mind set on a thing, it's no use to try to budge him. I've whipped him
till he was black and blue, and it didn't do a penny's worth of good."

"You should have used moral suasion, Craft; that's the way to treat
boys. Get their confidence, and then you can handle them. Well, we'll
get Ralph's mind fixed on the fact that he is Mrs. Burnham's son, and
see how he'll stick to that. Hark! There they come now. Sooner than I
expected."

The outer door of the office was opened, and Ralph and the young man
entered. The messenger disappeared into the inner room, but after a
minute or two he came out and ushered Ralph into the presence of the
lawyer. Sharpman arose, greeted the boy pleasantly and shook hands
with him, and Ralph thought that lawyers were not such forbidding
people after all.

"Do you recognize this gentleman?" said Sharpman, turning, with a wave
of his hand, toward old Simon.

The old man was sitting there with his hands crossed on his cane, and
with a grim smile on his gaunt face. Ralph looked intently, for a
moment, into the shadow, and then, with an exclamation of surprise and
fear on his lips, he stepped back toward the door.

"I won't go!" he cried; "don't make me go back with him, sir!" turning
his distressed face to the lawyer, as he spoke.

Sharpman advanced and took the boy by the hand and led him to a chair.
"Don't be afraid," he said, gently, "there's no cause for alarm. You
shall not go back with him. He is not here to take you back, but to
establish your identity."

Then a new fear dawned upon Ralph's mind.

"He ain't my grandfather!" he exclaimed. "Simon Craft ain't my
grandfather. He wouldn't never 'a' whipped me the way he done if he'd
a-been truly my grandfather."

Craft looked up at Sharpman with a little nod. The boy had identified
him pretty plainly, and proved the truth of his story to that extent
at least.

"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, "oh, no! Mr. Craft is not your grandfather;
he doesn't claim to be. He has come here only to do you good. Now, be
calm and reasonable, and listen to what we have to tell you, and, my
word for it, you will go back to Billy Buckley's to-night with a heart
as light as a feather. Now, you'll take my advice, and do that much,
won't you?"

"Yes, I will," said Ralph, settling himself into his chair, "I will,
if I can only find out about my father 'n' mother. But I won't go back
to live with him; I won't never go back there!"

"Oh, no!" replied Sharpman, "we'll find a better home for you than Mr.
Craft could ever give you. Now, if you will sit still and listen to
us, and take our advice, we will tell you more things about yourself
than you have ever thought of knowing. You want to hear them, don't
you?"

"Well, yes," replied Ralph, smiling and rapidly regaining his
composure; "yes, of course."

"I thought so. Now I want to ask you one or two questions. In the
first place, what do you remember about yourself before you went to
live with Mr. Craft?"

"I don't remember anything, sir,--not anything."

"Haven't you a faint recollection of having been in a big accident
sometime; say, for instance, a railroad disaster?"

"No--I don't think I have. I think I must 'a' dreamed sumpthin' like
that once, but I guess it never happened to me, or I'd 'member more
about it."

"Well, Ralph, it did happen to you. You were riding in a railroad car
with your father and mother, and the train went through a bridge. A
good many people were killed, and a good many more were wounded; but
you were saved. Do you know how?"

Ralph did not answer the question. His face had suddenly paled.

"Were my father an' mother killed?" he exclaimed.

"No, Ralph, they were not killed. They were injured, but they
recovered in good time."

"Are they alive now? where are they?" asked the boy, rising suddenly
from his chair.

"Be patient, Ralph! be patient! we will get to that in time. Be seated
and answer my question. Do you know how you were saved?"

"No, sir; I don't."

"Well, my boy," said the lawyer, impressively, pointing his finger
toward Craft, "there is the man who saved you. He was on the train. He
rushed into the wreck at the risk of his life, and drew you from the
car window. In another minute it would have been too late. He fell
back into the river holding you in his arms, but he saved you from
both fire and water. The effort and exposure of that night brought on
the illness that has resulted in the permanent loss of his health, and
left him in the condition in which you now see him."

Ralph looked earnestly at old Simon, who still sat, quiet and
speechless, chuckling to himself, and wishing, in his heart, that he
could tell a story as smoothly and impressively as Lawyer Sharpman.

"An' do I owe my life to him?" asked the boy. "Wouldn't I 'a' been
saved if he hadn't 'a' saved me?"

"It is not at all probable," replied Sharpman. "The flames had already
reached you, and your clothing was on fire when you were drawn from
the car."

It was hard for Ralph to believe in any heroic or unselfish conduct on
the part of Simon Craft; but as he felt the force of the story, and
thought of the horrors of a death by fire, he began to relent toward
the old man, and was ready to condone the harsh treatment that he had
suffered at his hands.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to 'im," he said, "I'm much obliged to 'im,
even if he did use me very bad afterwards."

"But you must remember, Ralph, that Mr. Craft was very poor, and he
was ill and irritable, and your high temper and stubborn ways annoyed
him greatly. But he never ceased to have your best interests at heart,
and he was in constant search of your parents, in order to restore you
to them. Do you remember that he used often to be away from home?"

"Yes, sir, he used to go an' leave me with ole Sally."

"Well, he was away searching for your friends. He continued the search
for five years, and at last he found your father and mother. He
hurried back to Philadelphia to get you and bring you to your parents,
as the best means of breaking to them the glad news; and when he
reached his home, what do you suppose he found?"

Ralph smiled sheepishly, and said: "I 'xpect, maybe, I'd run away."

"Yes, my boy, you had. You had left his sheltering roof and his
fostering care, without his knowledge or consent. Most men would have
left you, then, to struggle on by yourself, as best you could; and
would have rewarded your ingratitude by forgetfulness. Not so with
Mr. Craft. He swallowed his pain and disappointment, and went out to
search for you. He had your welfare too deeply at heart to neglect
you, even then. His mind had been too long set on restoring you to
loving parents and a happy home. After years of unremitting toil
he found you, and is here to-night to act as your best and nearest
friend."

Ralph had sat during this recital, with astonishment plainly depicted
on his face. He could scarcely believe what he heard. The idea that
Simon Craft could be kind or good to any one had never occurred to him
before.

"I hope," he said, slowly, "I hope you'll forgive me, Gran'pa Simon,
if I've thought wrong of you. I didn't know 'at you was a-doin' all
that for me, an' I thought I was a-havin' a pirty hard time with you."

"Well," said Craft, speaking for the first time since Ralph's
entrance. "Well, we won't say anything more about your bad behavior;
it's all past and gone now, and I'm here to help you, not to scold
you. I'm going to put you, now, in the way of getting back into your
own home and family, if you'll let me. What do you say?"

"I'm sure that's very good in you, an' of course I'd like it. You
couldn't do anything for me 'at I'd like better. I'm sorry if I've
ever hurt your feelin's, but--"

"How do you think you would like to belong to a nice family, Ralph?"
interrupted Sharpman.

"I think it'd make me very happy, sir."

"And have a home, a beautiful home, with books, pictures, horses, fine
clothes, everything that wealth could furnish?"

"That'd be lovely, very lovely; but I don't quite 'xpect that, an'
what I want most is a good mother, a real, nice, good mother. Haven't
you got one for me? say, haven't you got one?"

The boy had risen to his feet and stood with clasped hands, gazing
anxiously at Sharpman.

"Yes, my boy, yes," said the lawyer, "we've found a good mother for
you, the best in the city of Scranton, and the sweetest little sister
you ever saw. Now what do you think?"

"I think--I think 'at it's most too good to be true. But you wouldn't
tell me a lie about it, would you? you wouldn't do that, would you?"

"Oh, no! Ralph; good lawyers never lie, and I'm a good lawyer."

"An' when can I see 'em? Can I go to 'em to-night? I don't b'lieve I
can wait,--I don't b'lieve I can!"

"Ralph! Ralph! you promised to be quiet and reasonable. There, be
seated and wait till you hear us through. There is something better
yet for you to know. Now, who do you suppose your mother is? She lives
in Scranton."

Ralph sat, for a moment, in stupid wonder, staring at Sharpman. Then
a brilliant thought, borne on by instinct, impulse, strong desire,
flashed like a ray of sunlight, into his mind, and he started to his
feet again, exclaiming:--

"Mrs. Burnham! it can't be! oh, it can't be! tell me, is it Mrs.
Burnham?"

Craft and Sharpman exchanged quick glances of amazement, and the
latter said, impressively:--

"Yes, Ralph, Mrs. Burnham is your mother."

The boy stood for another moment, as if lost in thought; then he cried
out, suddenly: "And Mr. Burnham, he--he was my--my father!" and he
sank back into his chair, with a sudden weakness in his limbs, and a
mist before his eyes.

For many minutes no one spoke. Then Ralph asked, quietly,--

"Does--does she know?"

"Now, Ralph," said Sharpman, "now comes the strangest part of the
story. Your mother believes you to be dead. She believes that you
perished in the accident at Cherry Brook, and has mourned for you ever
since the time of that disaster."

"Am I the boy--am I the Ralph she lost?"

"The very one, but we cannot make her think so. I went to her, myself,
this morning, and told her that you are alive. I told her who you are,
and all about you. She knows you, but she will not believe that you
are her son. She wants better evidence than we can give to her,
outside of the courts."

"An' won't she never believe it? won't she never take me?"

The boy's voice and look revealed the sudden clashing of his hope.

"Oh, yes, Ralph! in time; I do not doubt that in good time she will
recognize you and take you to her home. She has so long believed you
to be dead that it is hard for her to overcome the prejudice of that
belief."

Then another fear came into the lad's mind.

"Are you sure," he cried out, "that I am her boy? are you sure I'm the
right one?"

"Oh, yes!" said the lawyer, assuringly, "oh, yes! there's no mistake
about that, there isn't the shadow of a doubt about that. We shall
establish your identity beyond question; but we shall have to do it in
the courts. When it is once done no one can prevent you from taking
the name and the property to which you are entitled and using them as
you see fit."

"But my mother!" said Ralph, anxiously, "my mother; she's all I care
about; I don't want the property if I can't have her."

"And you shall have her, my boy. Mrs. Burnham said to me this morning,
that, until your claim was duly proved in a court of law, she would
have no legal right to accept you as her son; but that, when your
identity is once established in that way, she will receive you into
her home and her heart with much joy."

Ralph looked up with brightening eyes.

"Did she say that?" he exclaimed, "an' will she do it?"

"I have no doubt of it, none whatever."

"Then let's get at it right away," said the boy, impatiently, "it
won't take very long, will it?"

"Oh! some little time; several months, may be; may be longer."

Ralph's face fell again.

"I can't wait that long!" he exclaimed; "I'll go to her myself; I'll
tell her ev'rything; I'll beg her to take me. Do you think she would?
do you?"

"Oh, Ralph! now be reasonable. That would never do. In the first
place, it would be useless. She has seen you, she knows you; she says
you are not her son; you can't prove it to her. Besides that, she has
no legal right to take you as her son until the courts have passed
upon the question of your identity. If she should attempt to do so,
the other heirs of Robert Burnham would come in and contest your
claim, and you would be in a far worse position to maintain your
rights than you are now,--oh! far worse. No, you must not go to Mrs.
Burnham, you must not go to her at all, until your sonship is fully
established. You must keep cool, and wait patiently, or you will
destroy every chance you have."

"Well, then, I'll try to; I'll try to wait an' do what you tell me to;
what shall I do first?"

"The first thing to be done, Ralph, is to have the court appoint a
guardian for you. You can't do anything for yourself, legally, you
know, till you are twenty-one years old; and whatever action is taken
in your behalf, must be taken by a guardian. It will be his place to
establish your identity, to restore you to your mother, and to take
care of your property. Now, who would you prefer to have act in that
capacity?"

"Well, I don't know; there's Uncle Billy, he's the best friend I've
got; wouldn't he do?"

"Do you mean William Buckley, with whom you are living?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, he would do if he were rich, or had rich friends who would go
on his bond. You see, the guardian would have to give a bond to the
extent of a great many thousand dollars for the faithful performance
of his duties. Could Buckley do that?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. He ain't rich, himself, an' I never heard of his
havin' any rich friends."

"Whom else can you think of?"

"Won't Mrs. Burnham do?"

"Oh, no! it might be necessary for the guardian to bring suit against
her."

"There ain't anybody else that I can think of," said Ralph,
despairingly, after a moment's pause.

"Well, then, I don't know what we shall do. If you can't find some one
who is able to qualify for this trust, we may as well stop right here.
I guess we've done all we can for the boy, Mr. Craft?"

Craft nodded and smiled. He was enjoying the lawyer's diplomacy with
Ralph, exceedingly.

The lad was again in the depths of anxiety. He looked from one to the
other of the men with appealing eyes.

"Ain't they some way to fix it, Mr. Sharpman?" he said. "Can't you do
sumpthin' for me?"

"Oh! I couldn't be your guardian, my boy, the law wouldn't allow that;
and Mr. Craft, here, hasn't money enough. I guess we'll have to give
up the idea of restoring you to your mother, and let you go back to
work in the breaker again."

"That'd be too bad," said the boy. "Don't do that; I couldn't stan'
that--now. Can't you see my mother again, Mr. Sharpman, an' get her to
take me--some way?"

"It can't be done, Ralph. There's only one way to fix it, and that is
to get a guardian for you. If we can't do that, we may as well give it
all up."

The anxiety and disappointment expressed in the lad's face was pitiful
to look upon.

Then Craft spoke up.

"Ralph has been very unkind and ungrateful to me," he said, "but I
have always been his best friend. I saved his life; and I've spent
time and money and lost my health on his account. But I'm willing to
do him a favor yet, if he thinks he can appreciate it. I'll act as his
guardian and take care of his property for him, if he'll be a good boy
and do as we tell him."

"I'll do everything I can," said Ralph, eagerly, "'ceptin' to go back
an' live with you; everything--but Mr. Sharpman said you wasn't rich
enough."

"No, I ain't," responded the old man; "and I don't know how to get
around that difficulty, unless Mr. Sharpman will help me and be my
bondsman."

Ralph turned his face pleadingly to Sharpman.

"Oh, now, Craft!" said the lawyer, smiling, and shaking his head,
"don't you think you are presuming a little too much on my friendship?
If you were the only one to be trusted, why, I might do it; but in
this case I would have to depend on the boy as well, and there's no
knowing how he would misbehave. According to your own story, he is a
wilful, wrong-headed lad, who has already rewarded your kindness to
him with base ingratitude. Oh, no! I could trust you, but not him."

"Mr. Sharpman!" pleaded the boy, "Mr. Sharpman, I never meant to be
mean or unkind to Gran'pa Simon. I never knew't he saved my life,
never. I thought he abused me, I did; I was sure of it; that's the
reason I run away from 'im. But, you see, I'm older now; I'd be more
reason'ble; I'll do anything you tell me to, Mr. Sharpman,--anything,
if you'll only fix it for Gran'pa Simon so's't he can help me get back
to my mother."

The lawyer sat for a few moments as if lost in thought. Finally, he
raised his head and said:--

"I've a great mind to try you, Ralph. Do you think I can really place
full confidence in you?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!"

"And will you follow my advice to the letter, and do just what I tell
you to do in this matter?"

"Yes, sir; I will."

"Well, then," said Sharpman, turning to Craft, "I think I'll trust the
boy, and I'll assist you in your bonds. I know that we both have his
interest at heart, and I believe that, together, we can restore his
rights to him, and place him in the way of acceptance by his family.
Ralph," turning again to the boy, "you ought to be very thankful to
have found two such good friends as Mr. Craft and myself."

"Yes, sir, I am. You'll do everything you can for me, won't you? as
quick as you can?"

"Oh, yes! Mr. Craft will be your guardian, and I will be his bondsman
and lawyer. Now, I think we understand each other, and I guess that's
all for to-night."

"When do you want me to come again?"

"Well, I shall want you to go to Wilkesbarre with me in a few days, to
have the appointment of guardian made; but I will send for you. In the
meantime you will keep on with your work as usual, and say nothing to
any person about what we have told you. You'll do that, won't you?"

"Yes, sir, I will. But, Uncle Billy--can't I tell him? he'll be awful
glad to know."

"Well, yes, you may tell Billy, but charge him to keep it a profound
secret."

"Oh! he will, he will; he'll do anything like that 'at I ask 'im to."

Ralph picked up his cap and turned to go; he hesitated a moment, then
he crossed the room to where old Simon still sat, and, standing before
him, he said:--

"I'm sorry you're sick, Gran'pa Simon. I never meant to do wrong by
you. I'll try to do w'at's right, after this, anyway."

The old man, taken by surprise, had no answer ready; and Sharpman,
seeing that the situation was likely to become awkward, stepped
forward and said: "Oh! I've no doubt he'll be all we can desire now."

He took the boy's hand, and led him toward the door. "I see my clerk
has gone," he said; "are you afraid to go home alone?"

"Oh, no! It's moonlight; an' besides, I've gone home alone lot's o'
nights."

"Well, good luck to you! Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

The office door closed behind the boy, and he went out into the street
and turned toward home.

The moon was bright and full, and a delicate mist hung close to the
earth. It was a very beautiful night. Ralph thought he had never seen
so beautiful a night before. His own footsteps had a musical sound in
his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach Bachelor Billy, and
to tell to him the wonderful news,--news so wonderful that he could
scarcely realize or comprehend it. Mr. Sharpman said he would be going
back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather. And so he was,
was he not? He asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would
not say yes. There was a vague uneasiness within him that he could not
quite define. It was not because he doubted that he was Mrs. Burnham's
son; he believed that fact implicitly. It was not so much, either,
that he could not go to her at once; he could wait for that if the end
would only surely bring it. But it seemed to him that he was being
set up in a kind of opposition to her; that he was being placed in a
position which might lead to an estrangement between them: and that
would be a very sad result, indeed, of this effort to establish his
identity. But Mr. Sharpman had assured him that Mrs. Burnham approved
of the action that was about to be taken in his behalf. Why, then,
should he fear? Was it not absurd to cloud his happiness with the
dread of something which would never come? Away with doubts! away
with fears! he would revel, for to-night at least, in the joy of his
new knowledge. Mrs. Burnham was his mother; was not that beautiful,
beautiful? Could he, in his wildest flight of fancy or desire, have
ever hoped for more than that? But there was something more, and that
something was that Robert Burnham was his father. Ah! that was, beyond
all question, the highest honor that could ever rest upon a boy,--to
be the son of a hero! Ralph threw back his head and shoulders with
instinctive, honest pride as this thought filled his mind and heart,
and his quick step grew more elastic and more firm as he hurried on
along the moonlit path.

He was out beyond the city limits now, climbing the long hill
toward home. He could see Burnham Breaker, standing out in majestic
proportions, black and clear-cut against the moon-illumined sky.
By and by the little mining village came into view, and the row of
cottages, in one of which the Widow Maloney lived; and finally the
light in Bachelor Billy's window. When Ralph saw this he broke into a
run, and sped swiftly along the deserted street, with the whole glad
story of his parentage and his prospects crowding to his tongue.

Billy was still sitting by the fire when the boy burst into the room;
but he had fallen asleep, and his clay pipe had dropped from his
fingers and lay broken on the hearth.

"Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy! what do you think?"

"Why, Ralph, lad, is that yo'? I mus' 'a' been asleep. Whaur ye been,
eh?"

"W'y don't you 'member? I went to Lawyer Sharpman's office."

"True for ye, so ye did. I forgot; an' did ye--"

"Oh, Uncle Billy! what _do_ you think? Guess who I am; guess!"

"Why, lad, don't frighten a mon like that. Ye'll wake the neeborhood.
Who be ye, then?"

"Guess! guess! Oh, you'd never guess! I'm Ralph Burnham; I'm Mrs.
Burnham's son!"

Bachelor Billy's hands dropped lifelessly to his knees, his mouth and
eyes came wide open with unfeigned astonishment, and, for the moment,
he was speechless. Finally he found breath to exclaim: "Why, Ralph,
lad; Ralph, ye're crazy,--or a-jokin'! Don't joke wi' a mon that way,
Ralph; it ain't richt!"

"No, but, Uncle Billy, it's true; it's all true! Ain't it splendid?"

"Be ye sure o' that, Ralph? be ye sure o' it?"

"Oh! they ain't no mistake about it; they couldn't be."

"Well, the guid Lord save ye, lad!" and Billy looked the boy over
carefully from head to foot, apparently to see if he had undergone any
change during his absence. Then he continued: "Coom, sit ye, then; sit
ye, an' tell us aboot it a'; how happenit it, eh?"

Again they drew their chairs up before the replenished fire, and Ralph
gave a full account of all that had occurred at the lawyer's office.

By virtue of his own faith he inspired Bachelor Billy with equal
confidence in the truth of the story; and, by virtue of his own
enthusiasm, he kindled a blaze of enthusiasm in the man's heart that
glowed with hardly less of brightness than that in his own. Very late
that night they sat there, these two, talking of what the future held
for Ralph; building bright castles for him, and high hopes, with
happiness beyond measure. It was only when the fire burned out and
left its charred coals in the iron grate-bars and on the hearth that
they went to bed, the one to rest in the dreamless sleep that follows
in the path of honest toil, and the other to wake often from his
feverish slumber and stare down into the block of moonlight that fell
across his bed through the half-curtained window of the room, and
wonder whether he had just dreamed it all, or whether he had, indeed,
at last, a birthright and a name.




CHAPTER VII.

RHYMING JOE.


Ten days after the evening interview at Sharpman's office, Ralph
received a message from the lawyer instructing him to be at the
railroad station on the following morning, prepared to go to
Wilkesbarre.

So Bachelor Billy went alone that day to the breaker, and Ralph stayed
behind to make ready for his journey.

He dressed himself in his best clothes, brushed them carefully, put a
little money in his pocket, and, long before the appointed hour, he
was at the station, waiting for Sharpman.

The lawyer did not come until it was nearly time for the train to
start. He greeted Ralph very pleasantly, and they took a seat together
in the car. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and the nature-loving
boy enjoyed greatly the changing views from the car window, as the
train bore them swiftly on through the picturesque valley of the
Lackawanna. After reaching, at Pittston, the junction with the
Susquehanna River, the scenery was grander; and, as they passed down
through the far-famed Wyoming Valley, Ralph thought he had never
before seen anything quite so beautiful. On the whole it was a
delightful journey. Sharpman was in excellent spirits and made himself
very agreeable indeed. He seemed to enjoy answering the boy's bright
questions, and listening to his shrewd remarks and frank opinions. It
was not until they were nearing Wilkesbarre that the special object
of their trip was mentioned; then the lawyer informed Ralph that they
would go directly to court, and instructed him that if the judge
should ask him whom he wished for his guardian, Ralph was to reply
that he desired the appointment of Simon Craft. That matter being
thoroughly understood, they went on to talk of what they should do in
the future.

"It will be necessary, eventually," said Sharpman, "to bring a formal
suit against Mrs. Burnham, as administrator, to recover your interest
in the estate; but, judging from what she has intimated to me, I don't
anticipate any serious opposition on her part."

"I'm sorry, though," responded Ralph, "that they's got to be a
law-suit. Couldn't we make it so plain to her, some way, 'at I'm her
son that we needn't have any suit?"

"I am afraid not. Even though she, herself, were convinced, she would
have no right to distribute a portion of the estate to you against the
objection of her daughter's guardian. There is no way but to get a
judgment of the court in the matter."

"Well, why couldn't she jes' take my part, an' give it to her
daughter's guarden, an' then take me home to live with her without any
propaty? Wouldn't that do? I'd a good deal ruther do that than have a
law-suit. A man hates to go to law with his own mother, you know."

Sharpman smiled and replied: "That would be a very generous offer,
indeed; but I am afraid even that would not do. You would have no
right to make such an agreement before you are twenty-one years old.
Oh, no! we must have a law-suit, there is no other way; but it will be
a mere matter of form; you need have no fear concerning it."

The train reached Wilkesbarre, and Ralph and the lawyer went directly
from the station to the court-house. There were very few people in the
court-room when they entered it, and there seemed to be no especial
business before the court. Sharpman went down into the bar and shook
hands with several of the attorneys there. The judge was writing
busily at his desk. After a few moments he laid his pen aside and
read a long opinion he had prepared in the matter of some decedent's
estate. Ralph could not understand it at all, and his mind soon
wandered to other subjects. After the reading was finished and one or
two of the lawyers had made short speeches, there was a pause. Then
Sharpman arose, and, drawing a bundle of papers from his pocket, he
read to the court from one of them as follows:--

    "TO THE HONORABLE, THE JUDGE OF THE ORPHANS' COURT OF LUZERNE
    COUNTY:--

    "The petition of Ralph Burnham, by his next friend Simon Craft,
    respectfully represents that the petitioner is a minor child of
    Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton in said county,
    deceased, under the age of fourteen years; that he is resident
    within the said county and has no guardian to take care of his
    estate. He therefore prays the court to appoint a guardian for
    that purpose.

                           "RALPH BURNHAM.
    By his next friend, SIMON CRAFT.
      Dated, Sept. 26, 1867."

"Your Honor will notice that the petition is duly sworn to," said
Sharpman, handing the paper to the clerk, who, in turn, handed it to
the judge. There was a minute of silence. The lawyers were all staring
at Sharpman in astonishment.

Then, the judge spoke.

"Mr. Sharpman, I was not aware that Robert Burnham left more than one
child living; a girl, for whom we have already made appointment of a
guardian."

"I was not aware of that fact either," rejoined Sharpman, "until very
recently; but it is a fact, nevertheless; and we are here now, asking
that a way be prepared by which this heir may come into his rightful
portion of his father's estate."

"This is a peculiar case," responded the judge; "and I think we should
have some other basis than this on which to act; some affidavit of
facts."

"I came prepared to meet that objection," said Sharpman. "I will now
read, if the court please, a statement of the facts in the case." He
unfolded another paper and read a long and detailed account of the
wreck, of Ralph's rescue by Simon Craft, of the old man's care and
keeping of the boy, of the finding of Ralph's parents, the lad's
desertion, the recent discovery of his whereabouts, of Craft's toil
and sacrifice in the matter, and of Ralph's desire to be restored to
his family. This was signed and sworn to by Simon Craft.

The judge sat for a moment in silence, as if studying the effect of
this affidavit.

"Has the mother been notified," he said finally, "that this child
is living, and, if so, why does not she appear here to make this
application?"

"I will answer that question, your Honor, by reading the following
affidavit," replied Sharpman.

    "LUZERNE COUNTY, SS.:

    "John H. Sharpman, attorney at law of said county, being duly
    sworn according to law, deposes, and says: that, on the fifteenth
    day of September, A.D. 1867, he called upon Mrs. Margaret Burnham,
    the widow of Robert Burnham, late of the city of Scranton,
    deceased, and administrator of the said Robert Burnham's estate,
    and informed her of the facts set forth in the foregoing affidavit
    of Simon Craft. She acknowledged her acquaintance with the boy
    Ralph, herein mentioned, but refused to acknowledge him as the
    son of Robert Burnham, or to grant him any legal interest in the
    estate of the said Robert Burnham. A notice, a copy of which is
    hereto attached, has been served on the said Margaret Burnham,
    warning her that application will be made to the Orphans' Court,
    on this day, at this hour, for the appointment of a guardian for
    the boy Ralph.

                            "JOHN H. SHARPMAN.
    Sworn and subscribed before me,
      Sept. 26, 1867.
        ISRAEL DURHAM,
          _Justice of the Peace_."

"Does any one appear for Mrs. Burnham in this matter?" inquired the
judge, addressing the assembly of lawyers.

An elderly man, short and thick-set, with gray hair and moustache,
arose, and said:--

"I have been informed, as Mrs. Burnham's attorney, that such a
proceeding as this was in contemplation. I appreciate your Honor's
careful scrutiny of the matter before making an appointment; but, so
long as we do not recognize the boy as Robert Burnham's son, it would
hardly be justifiable for us to interfere in the simple appointment
of a guardian for him. Inasmuch, however, as the avowed purpose is
to make an attack on the Burnham estates, we shall insist that the
guardian enter into a bond of sufficient amount and value to cover any
damages which may accrue from any action he may see fit to take."

"Have you prepared a bond, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge.

"We have," replied Sharpman, producing still another paper.

"Mr. Goodlaw," continued the judge, addressing Mrs. Burnham's
attorney, "will you look at the bond and see if it is satisfactory to
you?"

Mr. Goodlaw took the bond, examined it, and returned it to the clerk.
"I have no objection to make to it," he said.

"Then we will approve the bond, Mr. Sharpman, and make the
appointment. You have named Simon Craft as guardian. We are wholly
unacquainted with him. Have you consulted with the boy in this matter?
What does he say?"

"I have brought the boy into court, so that, notwithstanding his legal
inability to make choice for himself, your Honor might be satisfied as
to his wish in the matter. This is the boy," as Ralph, obedient to the
lawyer's summons, came into the bar and stood beside him. The judge
scrutinized the lad closely, and the lawyers leaned forward in their
chairs, or came nearer for the purpose of better observation. Ralph
felt somewhat embarrassed, standing there to be stared at so, but the
voice of the judge soon reassured him.

"Ralph," he said, "is this application for a guardian made according
to your desire?"

"Yes, sir," replied the boy; "Mr. Sharpman says I ought to have one."

"And whom do you choose for your guardian?"

"Gran'pa Simon, sir."

Sharpman looked annoyed, and whispered something to Ralph.

"I mean Simon Craft," said the boy, correcting himself.

"Is Simon Craft your grandfather?" asked the judge, sternly.

"Oh, no! I guess not. He made me call 'im that. I never had no
grandfather; but Mr. Sharpman says that Robert Burnham was my
father--and--and he's dead."

The judge looked down at the lad somewhat uncertainly, then he said:
"Well, Ralph, that will do; we'll make the appointment, but," turning
to Sharpman, "we shall watch this matter closely. We shall see that
justice is done to the child in any event."

"It is my earnest wish," responded Sharpman, "that your Honor shall
do so. My only object in the matter is to see that this boy, whom I
firmly believe to be Robert Burnham's son, is restored to his family
and estates, and that this old man, who has saved the lad's life, and
has spent and endured much for him through many years, is adequately
rewarded in his old age."

The judge endorsed the papers and handed them to the clerk, and
Sharpman walked up the aisle with Ralph to the door of the court-room.

"I have business," said the lawyer, "which will keep me here the rest
of the day. Can you find your way back to the station?"

"Oh, yes!"

"Here is something to pay your fare with;" offering a piece of money
to the boy.

"I've got enough," said Ralph, declining to accept it, "plenty; I'll
get home all right."

"Well, the train will leave at noon. I'll send for you when we want
you again. Good-by!"

"Good-by!"

Ralph went down the steps, out at the door, and across the court-house
yard. He was not sure that he struck into the right street to go to
the station, there were so many streets radiating from the court-house
square. But it did not much matter; there was plenty of time before
the train would start, and he thought he would like to walk about a
little, and see something of the city. He felt like walking off, too,
a feeling of dissatisfaction concerning what had just been done in
court. It was too much in the nature of an adverse proceeding to seem
quite right to him; he was fearful that, somehow, it would estrange
his mother from him. He thought there ought to be some simpler way to
restore him to his family, some way in which he and his mother could
act jointly and in undoubted harmony. He hoped it would all come out
right, though. He did not know what better he could do, at any rate,
than to follow the advice of his lawyer; and, besides that, he had
promised to obey him implicitly in this matter, and he must keep
his promise. He had no thought that he was being used merely as an
instrument in the hands of designing men.

It was with this vague feeling of unrest at his heart, and with his
mind occupied by uneasy thought, that he walked leisurely down the
street of this strange city, paying little attention to his course,
or to what was going on around him.

Finally he thought it was time he should have reached the station, or
at least made some attempt to find it; so he quickened his steps a
little, and looked out ahead of him.

There was a man standing on the next corner, and Ralph stopped and
asked him if he was on the right road to get to the station. The man
laughed good-naturedly, and told him he was on the right road to get
away from it, and advised him to retrace his steps for four blocks,
then to go two blocks to the left, and there he would find a street
running diagonally across the town, which, if he would follow it,
would take him very near to the station. He would have to hurry, too,
the man said, if he wanted to catch the noon train.

So Ralph turned back, counting the blocks as he went, turning at
the right place, and coming, at last, to the street described. But,
instead of one street running diagonally from this point there were
two or three; and Ralph did not know which one to follow. He asked
a boy, who was passing by with a basket on his shoulder, where the
station was, and the boy, bending his neck and looking at him, said,--

"I guess this's the way you want to go, sonny," pointing down one
of the streets, as he spoke, and then whistling a merry tune as he
trudged on with his burden.

Ralph turned into the street designated, and hurried down it, block
after block; but he did not reach the station, nor did he see any
place that looked like it. He seemed to be in the suburbs, too, in a
locality the surroundings of which impressed him unpleasantly. The
buildings were small and dilapidated, there was a good deal of rubbish
on the sidewalks and in the streets, a few ragged children were
playing in the gutter near by, shivering with cold as they ran about
in bare, dirty feet, and a drunken man, leaning against a post on the
opposite corner, was talking affectionately to some imaginary person
in the vicinity. Ralph thought that this, certainly, was not where he
ought to be. He walked more slowly, trying to find some one who would
give him reliable directions.

At the corner of the block there was a house that looked somewhat
better than its neighbors. It had a show-window projecting a
few inches into the street, and in the window was a display of
wine-bottles, and a very dirty placard announcing that oysters would
be served to customers, in every style. On the ground-glass comprising
the upper part of the door, the words "Sample Room" were elaborately
lettered. Ralph heard some one talking inside, and, after a moment of
hesitation, concluded to go in there and make his inquiry, as the need
of finding his way had come to be very pressing. Coming in, as he did,
from the street, the room was quite dark to his eyes, and he could not
well make out, at first, who were in it. But he soon discovered a man
standing, in his shirt-sleeves, behind a bar, and he went up to him
and said:--

"Will you please tell me, sir, which is the nearest way to the
railroad station?"

"Which station d'ye want to go to, bub?" inquired the man, leaning
over the bar to look at him.

"The one you take the train for Scranton from."

"Which train for Scranton d'ye want to take?"

"The one't leaves at noon."

"Why that train goes in just five minutes. You couldn't catch that
train now, my little cupid, if you should spread your wings and fly to
the station."

It was not the bar-tender who spoke this time; it was a young man who
had left his chair by the stove and had come up closer to get a better
look at the boy. He was just slipping a silver watch back into his
vest pocket. It was a black silk vest, dotted with little red figures.
Below the vest, encasing the wearer's legs very tightly, were a pair
of much soiled corduroy pantaloons that had once been of a lavender
shade. Over the vest was a short, dark, double-breasted sack coat, now
unbuttoned. A large gaudy, flowing cravat, and an ill-used silk hat,
set well back on the wearer's head, completed this somewhat noticeable
costume.

There was a good-natured looking face under the hat though, smooth and
freckled; but the eyes were red and heavy, and the tip of the straight
nose was of quite a vermilion hue.

"No, my dear boy," he continued,--

  "You can't catch it,
  And I can't fetch it,

"so you may as well take it easy and wait for the next one."

"When does the next one go?" inquired Ralph, looking up at the strange
young man, but with his eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness of the
room.

"Four o'clock, my cherub; not till four o'clock. Going up on that
train myself, and I'll see you right through:--

  "Oh, sonny! if you'll wait and go with me,
  How happy and delighted I should be."

Then the young man did a strange thing; he took hold of Ralph's arm,
led him to the window, turned his face to the light and scrutinized it
closely.

"Well, I'll be kicked to death by grasshoppers!" he exclaimed, at
last, "have I found--do I behold--is this indeed the long lost Ralph?"

The boy had broken away from him, and stood with frightened, wondering
face, gazing steadily on the young man, as if trying to call something
to memory. Then a light of recognition came into his eyes, and a smile
to his lips.

"Why!" he exclaimed, "it's Joe; it's Rhymin' Joe!"

"A happy meeting," said the young man, "and a mutual remembrance.
Heart speaks to heart.

  "The hand of friendship, ever true,
  Brings you to me and me to you.

"Mr. Bummerton," turning to the bar-tender, "allow me to introduce my
esteemed young friend, Mr. Ralph Craft, the worthy grandson of an old
acquaintance."

Mr. Bummerton reached a burly hand over the bar and shook hands
cordially with Ralph. "Glad to meet your young friend," he said.

"Well," continued Rhyming Joe, "isn't it strange how and under what
circumstances old cronies sometimes meet? I cast my eyes on you and I
said to myself, 'that young man has a familiar look to me.' I listened
to your voice and I remarked to my inner consciousness, 'that voice
lingers somewhere in the depths of of memory.' I turn your face to the
light, and lo and behold! I reveal to my astonished gaze the features
of my old friend, Ralph.

  "No tongue can tell my great delight,
  At seeing you again to-night.

"Of course it isn't night yet, you know, but the pressing exigencies of
rhyme often demand the elimination, as it were, of a small portion of
time."

Ralph was glancing uneasily about the room. "Gran'pa Simon ain't
anywheres around is he?" he asked, letting his eyes rest, with careful
scrutiny, on a drunken man asleep in a chair in a dark corner.

"No, my boy," answered Joe, "he isn't. I haven't seen the dear old
saint, for, lo, these many moons. Ah!--let me see! did you not leave
the patriarch's sweet home circle, somewhat prematurely, eh?

  "Gave the good old man the slip
  Ere the cup could touch the lip?"

"Yes," said Ralph, "I did. I run away. He didn't use me right."

"No, he didn't, that's so. Come, be seated--tell me about it. Oh!
you needn't fear. I'll not give it away. Your affectionate grandpa
and I are not on speaking terms. The unpleasant bitterness of our
estrangement is sapping the juices of my young life and dragging the
roses from my cheeks.

  "How sad when lack of faith doth part
  The tender from the toughened heart!"

Rhyming Joe had drawn two chairs near to the stove, and had playfully
forced Ralph into one of them, while he, himself, took the other.

The bar-tender came out from behind his bar and approached the couple.

"Oh, by the way," he asked, "did ye have a ticket for your passage up,
or was ye goin' to pay your fare?"

"Oh, no!" said Ralph, "I ain't got any ticket. Mr. Sharpman paid my
fare down, but I was goin' to pay it back, myself."

The man stood, for a few minutes, listening to the reminiscences of
their Philadelphia life which Ralph and Joe were recalling, then he
interrupted again:--

"How'd ye like to have some dinner, me boy? Ain't ye gittin' a little
hungry? it's after noon now."

"Well, I am a bit hungry," responded Ralph, "that's a fact. Do you get
dinners here for people?"

"Oh, certainly! jest as good a dinner as ye'll git anywhere. Don't
charge ye for nothing more'n ye actially eat, neither. Have some?"

"Well, yes," said the boy, "I guess so; I won't have no better chance
to get any, 'fore I get home."

"I think," said Rhyming Joe, as the man shuffled away, "that my young
friend would like a dish of soup, then a bit of tenderloin, and a
little chicken-salad, and some quail on toast, with the vegetables
and accessories. For dessert we will have some ices, a few chocolate
eclairs and lady-fingers, and a cup of black coffee. You had better
bring the iced champagne with the dinner, and don't forget the
finger-bowls."

Before the last words were out of the speaker's mouth, the bar-tender
had disappeared through a door behind the bar, with a wicked smile on
his face.

It seemed a long time, to Ralph, before the man came back, but when
he did come, he carried in his hands a tray, on which were bowls of
oyster soup, very thin, a few crackers, and two little plates of dirty
butter. He placed them on a round table at one side of the room, and
Ralph and Joe drew up their chairs and began to eat.

The man came again, a few minutes afterward, with bread, and pork, and
cabbage, and coffee.

On the whole, it was much better than no dinner, and Ralph's hunger
prevented him from being very critical. The warm food seemed to have
the effect of making him more communicative, and he was allowing his
companion to draw out from him, little by little, as they sat and ate,
the whole story of his life since leaving Simon Craft. Rhyming Joe
appeared to be deeply interested and very sympathetic.

"Well, you did have a hard time, my dear lad," he said, "out on the
road with that circus company. I travelled with a circus company once,
myself, in the capacity of special entertainer of country people and
inspector of watches and jewelry, but it brings tears to my eyes now,
to remember how ungratefully they treated me."

"That's jes' like they did me," said Ralph; "w'en I got sick up there
at Scranton, they hadn't no furder use for me, an' they went away an'
lef' me there alone."

"That was a sad plight to be in. How did you meet that emergency?"

"I didn't meet it at all. Bachelor Billy, he met it; he foun' me, an'
cured me, an' I live with him now, an' work in the breaker."

"Ah, indeed! at work. _Laborarium est honorarium_, as the Latin poet
has it. How often have I wished that it were possible for me to earn
my bread by the sweat of my brow; but, alas!--"

"Ain't it?" interrupted Ralph.

"No, my dear boy, it isn't. I have been afflicted, from my youth up,
with a chronic disease which the best physicians of both continents
have pronounced imminently dangerous to both life and happiness, if
physical exercise be immoderately indulged in."

"What is it?" asked Ralph, innocently.

"Indolentia, my dear boy, indolentia; a terrible affliction. But how
about Grandpa Simon? Has he discovered your retreat?

  "Has the bald, bad eagle of the plain
  Swooped down upon his prey again?"

"Well, not hardly that," responded Ralph, "but he's foun' me."

"Indeed! And what is his state of mind concerning you now?"

"He ain't my grandfather," said the boy, abruptly.

"Ain't your grandfather! You startle me."

"No, he ain't no relation to me."

"You take my breath away! Who are you, then?"

"I'm Ralph Burnham. I'm Robert Burnham's son."

Ralph had not meant to disclose so much, in this place, to this
fellow, but the words came out before he thought. It did not matter
much anyway,--every one would soon know it.

"Robert Burnham's son? You don't mean the rich coal proprietor who
died at his mine in Scranton last spring?"

"Yes, he's the one I mean. I'm his son."

Rhyming Joe leaned across the table, lifted up the boy's chin, and
looked into his eyes. "My dear young friend," he said, "I fear you
have fallen into evil ways since you passed out of the range of my
beneficent influence. But you should not try to impose so glittering a
romance on the verdant credulity of an old acquaintance at the first
meeting in many weary years."

  "To your faithful friend and true,
  Tell the truth, whate'er you do."

"Tis true!" asserted Ralph, stoutly. "Gran'pa Simon says so, an'
Lawyer Sharpman says so, an' Mrs. Burnham, she--she--she almost
believes it, too, I guess."

The bar-tender approached again and asked what else they would have.

"A little something to wash the dinner down with, Bummerton," said
Joe, turning again quickly to Ralph.

"Then why don't you live in the Burnham mansion?" he asked, "and leave
rude toil for others?"

"'Cause my mother ain't able to reco'nize me yet; she can't do it till
the suit's ended. They's other heirs, you know."

"Suit! what suit? are you going to have a suit over it?"

The bar-tender brought a bottle, a pitcher of water, two glasses, and
a bowl of sugar.

"Yes," replied the boy, sadly, "I s'pose we've got to. Gran'pa Simon,
he's been 'pointed my garden. He ain't so bad a man as he used to be,
Gran'pa Simon ain't. He's been sick a good deal lately, I guess."

Rhyming Joe paid no attention to these last remarks, but he seemed to
be deeply interested in the law-suit mentioned. He took time to pour
some of the contents of the bottle into each glass, then he filled the
glasses up with water and stirred a goodly quantity of sugar into the
one he pushed toward Ralph.

"What is it?" asked the boy. "Uncle Billy an' me's temperance; we
don't drink nothin' much but water."

"Oh!" responded Joe, "this is purely a temperance drink; it's made up
from wheat, just the same as you get in your white bread. They have to
drink it here in Wilkesbarre, the water is so bad.

  "When man and water both are ill,
  A little wheat-juice fills the bill.

"Try some, you'll find it good."

Ralph was thirsty, and he sipped a little of the mixture; but he did
not like it very well, and he drank no more of it.

"Who is going to carry on the suit for you?" continued Rhyming Joe;
"have you got a lawyer?"

"Oh, yes! Lawyer Sharpman; he's very smart, too. He's goin' to manage
it."

"And when will the trial come off? Perhaps I may be of some assistance
to you and to my quondam friend, your sometime grandfather. I would
drop all bitterness of feeling, all vain enmity, if I might do the
revered patriarch a favor.

  "My motto has been, and my motto is yet,
  That it frequently pays to forgive and forget."

"Oh! I don't know," Ralph replied; "it'll be two or three months yet,
anyway, I guess."

Rhyming Joe gazed thoughtfully at the stove.

Bummerton came and began to take away the dishes.

"What's your bill, landlord?" inquired Joe.

"D'ye want the bill for both of ye?"

"Certainly. My young friend here, if I remember rightly, invited me to
dine with him. I am his guest, and he foots the bills. See?"

Ralph did not remember to have asked Rhyming Joe to dine with him, but
he did not want to appear mean, so he said:--

"Yes, I'll foot the bill; how much is it?" taking out his little
leather wallet as he spoke.

"It'll be three dollars," said Bummerton; "a dollar an' a quarter
apiece for the dinner, an' a quarter apiece for the drinks."

Ralph looked up in amazement. He had never before heard of a dinner
being worth so much money.

"Oh! it's all right," said Joe. "This is rather a high-priced hotel;
but they get up everything in first-class style, do you see?

  "If in style you drink and eat,
  Lofty bills you'll have to meet."

"But I ain't got that much money," said Ralph, unstrapping his wallet.

"How much have ye got?" inquired the bar-tender.

"I've only got a dollar'n eighty-two cents."

"Well, you see, sonny," said Bummerton, "that ain't more'n half
enough. Ye shouldn't order such a fancy dinner 'nless ye've got money
to pay for it."

"But I didn't know it was goin' to cost so much," protested Ralph.
"Uncle Billy an' me got jest as good a dinner last Fourth o' July at
a place in Scranton, an' it didn't cost both of us but seventy cents.
Besides, I don't b'lieve--"

"Look here, Bummerton!" said Joe, rising and leading the bar-tender
aside. They whispered together for a few moments and then returned.

"It's all right," said Joe. "You're to pay him what money you have,
and he's to charge the remainder on my bill. I'll stand the rest of it
for you.

  "I'll be that precious 'friend in need,'
  Who proves himself a friend indeed."

"Then," said Ralph, "I won't have any money left to pay my fare back
home."

"Oh, I'll see to that!" exclaimed Joe. "I invited you to ride up with
me, didn't I? and of course I'll pay your fare; _das verstekt sich_;
that goes without saying.

  "I'll never desert you, oh, never! he spake,
  We'll stand by each other, asleep or awake."

It was not without much misgiving that Ralph gave the dollar and
eighty-two cents to the bar-tender, and returned the empty wallet to
his pocket. But Rhyming Joe soon engaged him again in conversation.
The young man seemed to be deeply interested in the movement to
restore the boy to his family rights and possessions. He asked
many questions about it, about Craft, about Sharpman, about Ralph's
knowledge of himself; the whole ground, indeed, was gone over
carefully from the beginning to the present; even the probabilities of
the future were fully discussed.

In the meantime, the liquor in the bottle was steadily diminishing in
quantity, as a result of Rhyming Joe's constant attention to it, and
Ralph thought he began to detect evidences of intoxication in the
speech and conduct of his friend. His nose appeared to be getting
redder, his eyelids were drooping, he was sinking lower into his
chair, his utterance was growing thick, and his voice had a sleepy
tone.

Ralph, too, felt sleepy. The excitement and exercise of the morning,
the hearty dinner, the warm, close room, and the fumes of alcohol in
the atmosphere, were all having their effect on his senses. He saw,
dimly, that Joe's chin was resting on his breast and that his eyes
were closed; he heard him mutter in a voice that seemed to come from
some distant room:--

  "Of all 'e bowls I s-s-smell or see,
  The wassail bowl's 'e bowl f-f-for me,"

and the next moment both man and boy were fast asleep.




CHAPTER VIII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.


When Ralph awoke, it was quite dark in the room. He was still sitting
at the round table, but Rhyming Joe had disappeared from the other
side of it. He looked around the room, and saw that an oil-lamp was
burning behind the bar, and that two or three rough-looking men stood
there with the bar-tender, talking and drinking. But the young man who
had dined with him was nowhere to be seen. Ralph arose, and went over
to the bar.

"Can you tell me where Joe is, please?" he asked of the bar-tender.

"Joe? Oh, he went out a half-an-hour ago. I don't know where he went,
sonny." And the man went on filling the glasses, and talking to the
other men. Ralph stood for a moment, in deep thought, then he asked:--

"Did Joe say when he would be back?"

The bar-tender paid no attention to him, and, after a few moments, the
boy repeated the question.

"Mr. Bummerton, did Joe say when he would be back?"

"No, he didn't," responded the man, in a surly tone; "I don't know
nothing about him."

Ralph went back, and stood by the stove to consider the matter. He
thought it was very strange. He could hardly believe that Rhyming Toe
had intended to desert him in this way. He preferred to think that the
fellow had become helpless, and that Bummerton had dragged him into
some other room. He knew that Joe used to get that way, years before,
in Philadelphia. He had seen much of him during the wretched period of
his life with Simon Craft. Joe and the old man were together a great
deal during that time. They were engaged jointly in an occupation
which was not strictly within the limit of the law, and which,
therefore, required mutual confidence. The young fellow had,
apparently, taken a great liking to Ralph, had made much of him in
a jovial way, and, indeed, in several instances, had successfully
defended him against the results of Old Simon's wrath. The child had
come to regard him as a friend, and had not been displeased to meet
him, after all these years, in this unexpected manner. He had had a
general idea that the young man's character was not good, and that his
life was not moral, but he had not expected to be badly treated by
him. Now, however, he felt compelled to believe that Joe had abused
the privileges of friendship. The more he thought of it, the more sure
he became that he had been deceived and deserted. He was alone in a
strange city, without money or friends. What was to be done?

Perhaps the bar-tender, understanding the difficulty, would help him
out of it. He resolved to apply to him.

"Mr. Bummerton," he said, approaching the bar again, "now't Joe's
gone, an' I ain't got no money, I don't see how I'm goin' to git home.
Could--could you lend me enough to pay my fare up? I'll send it back
to you right away. I will,--honest!"

The man pushed both his hands into the pockets of his pantaloons, and
stood for a minute staring at the boy, in feigned astonishment.

"Why, my little innocent!" he exclaimed, "what do ye take me for;
a reg'lar home for the friendless? No, I ain't in the charitable
business jist now. By the way, did ye know that the law don't allow
hotel-keepers to let boys stay in the bar-room? Fust thing I know
they'll be a constable a-swoopin' down on me here with a warrant.
Don't ye think ye'd better excuse yourself? That's the door over
yonder, young feller."

Ralph turned, without a word, went to the door, opened it, and stepped
into the street. It was very dark outside, and a cold wind was blowing
up. He stood, for a few minutes, on the corner, shivering, and
wondering which way to go. He felt very wretched indeed; not so much
because he was penniless and lost, as because he had been deceived,
abused, and mocked. He saw through the whole scheme now, and wondered
how he had fallen so easily into it.

On a distant corner there was a street-lamp, burning dimly, and,
without much thought of where he was going, the boy started toward it.

There were other drinking-saloons along the street, and he could hear
loud talking and quarrelling in them as he passed by. A man came
out from one of them and hailed him gruffly. It frightened him, and
he started to run. The man followed him for a little way, shouting
savagely, and then turned back; but Ralph ran on. He stumbled,
finally, on the uneven pavement, and fell headlong, bruising his side
and hurting his wrist. His cap had rolled off, and it took him a
long time to find it. Then he crossed the street to avoid a party of
drunken revellers, and limped along until he came to the lamp that he
had seen from the distance. Down another street there were a number of
lights, and it looked more inviting; so he turned in that way. After
he had gone two or three blocks in this direction, avoiding carefully
the few persons whom he met, he turned again. The streets were
growing lighter and wider now, and there were more people on them,
and that was something to be thankful for. Finally he reached a busy,
well-lighted thoroughfare, and turned into it, with a sigh of relief.
He had not walked very far along it before he saw, over to the right,
surrounded by lights, a long, low building, in the middle of an open
square. It occurred to him, suddenly, that this was the railroad
station, and he hurried toward it. When he reached the door he
remembered that he was without money, but he thought he would go in at
any rate. He was very tired, and he knew of no better place in which
to stop and rest. So he went into the waiting-room, and sat down on a
bench, and looked around him.

There were not many people there, but they began to come very soon,
and kept coming until the room was nearly full. Finally, there was a
puffing of a locomotive out on the track, and a ringing of an engine
bell, and the door-keeper called out:--

"All aboard for Pittston, Scranton, and Carbondale!"

The people crowded toward the door, and just then a carriage drove up
to the other side of the station, and a gentleman and a lady and a
little girl came into the waiting-room from the street entrance. The
lady was in deep mourning; but, as she threw aside her veil for a
moment, Ralph recognized her as Mrs. Burnham, and the little girl as
her child. His heart gave a great throb, and he started to his feet.

The gentleman was saying: "I trust you will reach home safely and
comfortably."

And Mrs. Burnham replied: "Oh, there is no doubt of it, Mr. Goodlaw! I
have telegraphed to James to meet us at the station; we shall be there
before nine o'clock."

"I will see that you are comfortably settled," he said, as they
crossed the room toward the waiting train.

For a moment Ralph stood, wondering and uncertain. Then there came
into his mind a sudden resolution to speak to them, to tell them who
he was, and why and how he was here, and ask them to help him. He
started forward, but they were already passing out at the door. He
pushed hurriedly by several people in his effort to overtake them, but
the man who stood there punching tickets stopped him.

"Where's your ticket, sonny?" he asked.

"I ain't got any," replied Ralph.

"Then you can't get out here."

"But I want to find Mrs. Burnham."

"Who's Mrs. Burnham?"

"The lady't just went out."

"Has she got a ticket for you?"

"No, but she'd give me money to get one--I think."

"Well, I can't help that; you can't go out Come, stand aside! you're
blocking up the way."

The people, crowding by, pushed Ralph back, and he went and sat down
on the bench again.

The bell rang, the conductor shouted "All aboard!" and the train
moved off.

Ralph's eyes were full of tears, and his heart was very heavy. It
was not so much because he was friendless and without money that he
grieved, but because his mother,--his own mother,--had passed him by
in his distress and had not helped him. She had been so close to him
that he could almost have put out his hand and touched her dress, and
yet she had swept by, in her haste, oblivious of his presence. He
knew, of course, that, if he had spoken to her, or if she had seen and
known him, she would gladly have befriended him. But it was not her
assistance that he wanted so much as it was her love. It was the
absence of that sympathy, that devotion, that watchful care over every
step he might take, that motherly instinct that ought to have felt his
presence though her eyes had been blinded; it was the absence of all
this that filled his heart with heaviness.

But he did not linger long in despair; he dashed the tears from his
eyes, and began to consider what he should do. He thought it probable
that there would be a later train; and it was barely possible that
some one whom he knew might be going up on it. It occurred to him that
Sharpman had said he would be busy in Wilkesbarre all day. Perhaps he
had not gone home yet; if not, he might go on the next train, if there
was one. It was worth while to inquire, at any rate.

"Yes," said the door-keeper, in answer to Ralph's question, "there'll
be another train going up at eleven thirty-five."

"Do you know Mr. Sharpman?" asked the boy, timidly.

"Mr. who?"

"Mr. Sharpman, the lawyer from Scranton."

"No, I don't know him,--why?"

"Oh, I didn't know but you might know w'ether he'd gone home or not;
but, of course, if you don't know 'im you couldn't tell."

"No, I don't know anything about him," said the man, stretching
himself on the bench for a nap.

Ralph thought he would wait. Indeed, there was nothing better for him
to do. It was warm here, and he had a seat, and he knew of no other
place in the city where he could be so comfortable. The clock on the
wall informed him that it was eight in the evening. He began to feel
hungry. He could see, through a half-opened door, the tempting array
of food on the lunch-counter in another room; but he knew that he
could get none, and he tried not to think of eating. It was very
quiet now in the waiting-room, and it was not very long before Ralph
fell to dozing and dreaming. He dreamed that he was somewhere in deep
distress, and that his mother came, looking for him, but unable to see
him; that she passed so close to him he put out his hand and touched
her; that he tried to speak to her and could not, and so, unaware of
his presence, she went on, leaving him alone in his misery.

The noise of persons coming into the room awoke him, finally, and he
sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around him. He saw, by the clock
on the wall, that it was nearly train time. The escaping steam from
the waiting engine could already be heard outside. People were buying
tickets and making their way hurriedly to the platform; but, among all
those who came in and went out, Ralph could not discover the familiar
face and figure of Sharpman, nor, indeed, could he see any one whom
he knew.

After the passengers had all gone out, the door-keeper called Ralph to
him.

"Find your man?" he asked.

"Do you mean Mr. Sharpman?"

"Yes."

"No, he didn't come in. I guess he went home before."

The door-keeper paused and looked thoughtful. Finally he said:--

"You want to go to Scranton?"

"Yes, that's where I live."

"Well, I'll tell you what you do. You git onto that train, and when
Jim Coleman--he's the conductor--when he comes around to punch your
ticket, you tell him I said you were to be passed. Now you'll have to
hurry; run!"

The kind-hearted door-keeper saw Ralph leap on to the train as it
moved slowly out, and then he turned back into the waiting-room.
"Might as well give the lad a lift," he said to a man who stood by,
smiling; "he looked awful solemn when the last train before went and
left him. Jim won't put him off till he gits to Pittston, anyway."

Ralph found a vacant seat in the car and dropped into it, breathless
and excited. His good luck had come to him all in a moment so, that it
had quite upset him.

He did not just understand why the door-keeper's word should be good
for his passage, but the conductor would know, and doubtless it was
all right.

The train went rumbling on through the darkness; the lamps, hanging
from the ceiling, swayed back and forth; the people in the car were
very quiet,--some of them, indeed, were already asleep.

By and by, the conductor came in, a slender, young-looking man, with
a good-natured face. He greeted several of the passengers pleasantly,
and came down the aisle, punching tickets to the right and left, till
he reached the seat where Ralph was.

"Ticket?" he asked.

"I ain't got any," said the boy.

"What's the reason?"

"W'y, I lost all my money, an' I couldn't buy one, an' I couldn't see
nobody't I knew, an' the man't tended door, he said tell you to pass
me up."

The conductor smiled, as he recognized a familiar scheme of the
kind-hearted door-keeper, but he said, trying to speak sternly:--

"The man had no right to tell you that. Our rules are very strict. No
one can ride without a ticket or a pass. Where do you want to go?"

"To Scranton; I live there," said Ralph, his voice faltering with
apprehension.

"Well, I suppose I ought to stop the train and put you off."

Ralph looked out through the car window, at the blackness outside, and
his face took on a look of fear.

"I'm very sorry," he said, "I'm awful sorry. I wouldn't 'a' got on
if I'd 'a' known it. Do you think you've _got_ to put me off--right
away?"

The conductor looked out through the window, too.

"Well," he said, "it's pretty dark, and I hate to stop the train
between stations. I guess I'll have to let you ride to Pittston,
anyway. You'll get out there, won't you? it's the first stop."

"Oh, yes! I'll get out there," said Ralph, much relieved, settling
back into his seat as the conductor left.

The train dashed on through the night, rumbling, rocking, waking the
echoes now and then with its screaming whistle, and finally it pulled
into the station at Pittston.

True to his bargain, Ralph stepped from the train. Two or three other
people left it at the same time and hurried away up the street; then
the puffing engine pulled the cars out again into the darkness.

The boy stood, for a moment or two, wondering what he should do
now. The chill night air made him shiver, and he turned toward
the waiting-room. But the lights were already out there, and the
station-master had locked himself into his office. Off to the left he
saw the street lamps of West Pittston, dotting the blackness here and
there like dim, round stars; and between them and him the dark water
of the river reflected the few lights that shone on it. Finally, Ralph
walked down the length of the platform and turned up the street at the
end of it.

In a minute or two he had reached Main Street, and stood looking up
and down it, trying to decide which way to go. On the other side, and
a little to the right, he saw a man standing on the corner, under a
street lamp, and looking at him.

He was an honest-looking man, Ralph thought; may be he would tell him
what to do. He crossed over and went down to where the man stood.

"Please, mister," he said, "I'd like to find a place to stay all
night."

The man looked down on him wonderingly, but not unkindly.

"Is it a hotel ye're after?" he asked.

"Well, not hardly. I ain't got any money. I only want a place to stay
where I won't be in the dark an' cold alone all night."

"Do ye belong in Pittston, I don' no'?"

"No, I live in Scranton."

"Sure, the train jist wint for there. Why didn't ye go with it?"

"Well, you see, I didn't have any ticket, an' the conductor, he told
me to--to--he asked me if I wouldn't jest as lieve git off here."

The man gave a low whistle.

"Come along with me," he said, "it's little I can do for yez, but it's
better nor the strate." He led the way up the pavement of the side
street a few steps, unlocked a door and entered a building, and Ralph
followed him.

They seemed to be in a sort of retiring room for the use of the
adjoining offices. A gas light was burning dimly. There was a table
in the room, and there were some chairs. Some engineering tools stood
in one corner, some mining tools in another; caps were hanging on the
wall, and odds and ends of many kinds were scattered about.

The man took down a heavy overcoat, and spread it on the table.

"There," he said, "ye can slape on that."

"That'll be very nice," said Ralph; "it'll be a sight better'n stayin'
out in the street all night."

"Right ye are, me lad! Compose yoursilf now. Good-night, an' swate
drames to yez! I'm the watchman; I'll be out an' in; it's nothing here
that'll hurt ye, sure; good-night!" and the man went out, and locked
the door after him.

It was warm in the room, and very comfortable, and it was not long
after the boy laid down on the improvised bed before he was sound
asleep. He did not wake until the day began to dawn, and the watchman
came in and shook him; and it was some moments after he was roused
before he could make out just where he was. But he remembered the
situation, finally, and jumped down on to the floor.

"I've had a good sleep," he said. "I'm a great deal obliged to you."

"Don't shpake of it, lad," said the man; "don't shpake of it. Will ye
wash up a bit?"

"Yes, I would like to," replied Ralph, "very much."

He was shown the way to the basin and water, and after a few moments
he came back fresh and clean.

"Ye wouldn't like a bit to ate now, would ye?" asked the watchman, who
had been busying himself about the room.

"Oh, I can get along very well without it," replied the boy; "you've
done enough for me."

"Whin did ye ate last?"

"Well, it must 'a' been some after noon yestaday."

The man went to a closet and took down a dinner-pail.

"I've a bit left o' me last-night's dinner," said he; "an' av ye're
the laste bit hungry ye'll not be makin' me carry it home with me." He
had spread a newspaper on the table, and had laid out the pieces of
food upon it.

"Oh, I am hungry!" responded Ralph, looking eagerly over the tempting
array. "I'm very hungry; but you've been too good to me already, an'
you don't know me, either."

The man turned his face toward the door, and stood for a minute
without speaking. Then he said, huskily:--

"Ate it lad, ate it. Bless your sowl, there's a plinty more where that
come from."

The boy needed no further urging. He ate the food with great relish,
while the watchman stood by and looked on approvingly. When the meal
was finished, Ralph said:--

"Now, I'll be a-goin'. I can't never thank you enough. Maybe I can do
sumpthin' for you, some time, but--"

"Howld your tongue, now! Didn't I tell ye not to shpake of it?"

The boy opened the door and looked out upon the dawning day.

"Ain't it nice!" he said. "I can git along splendid in the daylight.
I ain't afraid, but it's awful lonesome in the dark, 'specially when
you're away from home this way."

"An' where do ye be goin' now?" inquired the watchman.

"Home; to Scranton. I can walk there, so long as it's daylight. Oh! I
can git along beautiful now. Which is the bes' way to go?"

The man looked down at him wonderingly for a moment. "Well, ye do bate
the--the--the prisidint!" he said, going with him to the corner of the
street. "Now, thin, go up the strate straight,--I mean straight up the
strate,--turn nayther to the right nor the lift, an whin the strate
inds, follow the road up the river, an' be it soon or late ye'll come
to Scranton."

"Thank you! Good-by. I'll al'ays remember you."

"Good-by, me lad! an' the saints attind ye!"

They shook hands cordially, and Ralph started up the street on his
long journey toward home, while the watchman turned back to his
duties, with his heart full of kindness and his eyes full of tears.
But he never, never forgot the homeless lad whom he fed and sheltered
that autumn night.




CHAPTER IX.

A FRIEND INDEED.


It had been understood, when Ralph went to Wilkesbarre that morning,
that he should return in the afternoon. Bachelor Billy was very much
surprised, therefore, when he returned from his work, not to find
the boy waiting for him. Indeed, he had more than half expected that
Ralph would come up to the breaker to walk home with him, or would, at
least, meet him on the way. The Widow Maloney had not seen him, she
said; and when supper was ready she sent her little girl down the road
to look for him, and to tell him to hurry home.

Before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she
could not find him. They were not worried about him, though; they
thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the
later trains. So, after supper, Billy lighted his pipe and walked down
toward the city, hoping to meet the lad. He went on until he reached
the railroad station. They told him there that the next train would be
in from Wilkesbarre in about an hour. He concluded to wait for it, so
he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going,
and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort. The train came at
last, and the passengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out
into the street. But among them all Bachelor Billy could not discover
Ralph. He saw Mrs. Burnham coming from the cars, though, and it
occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy.
She had doubtless come from Wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely
that she had been in court. He did not hesitate to inquire of her; she
knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came
to see Ralph.

He took off his cap and approached her. "Beggin' your pardon, Mistress
Burnham," he said, "but ha' ye seen aught o' Ralph?"

The lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man,
and, throwing aside her veil, she replied: "Oh, Billy, is that you?
Ralph, did you say? I have not seen him. Why?"

"He went to Wilkesbarre the day, ma'am, an' he s'ould 'a' comit hame
sooner, an' I thocht mayhap ye might 'a' rin across the lad, d'ye see.
Pardon me for a-stoppin' o' ye."

The lady still stood, holding her child by the hand.

"Did he go alone?" she asked.

"No, he went doon wi' Muster Sharpman."

"And has Mr. Sharpman returned?"

"I did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,--I s'ould 'a' gone
there first."

"I think Mr. Sharpman will look after him. I do not think you need to
worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight. But, if
Ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and I shall
assist you in searching for him."

"Thank ye, Mistress Burnham, thank ye, kindly! I canna feel greatly
concernit ower the lad, sin' he's verra gude at carin' for himsel'.
But, gin he does na come i' the mornin', I s'all mak' search for 'im.
Here's James a-waitin' for ye"; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by
the fretting horses while James held open the carriage door.

"Good-night, Billy!" came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and
"Good-night, Billy!" echoed the sweet voice of the child.

"Good-nicht to both o' ye!" he shouted, standing to watch them until
the carriage disappeared into the darkness.

"She's verra kin'," he said to himself, as he walked up the street
toward home, "verra kin', but it's no' sic a care as the lad's ane
mither s'ould ha' ower 'im, an' he awa' fra hame i' the darkness o'
the nicht so. But she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son. Coom
a day when that's plain to her, an' she'd spare naught to save 'im fra
the ghost o' danger."

When Bachelor Billy reached home, Mrs. Maloney was at the door to
ask about Ralph. The man told her what Mrs. Burnham had said, and
expressed an earnest hope that the boy would come safely back in the
morning. Then' he went to his room, started a fire in the grate, and
sat down, by it to smoke.

It was already past his customary bed-time, but he could not quite
make up his mind to go to bed without Ralph. It seemed a very lonely
and awkward thing for him to do. They had gone to bed together every
night for nearly three years, and it is not easy to break in upon such
a habit as that.

So Billy sat by the fire and smoked his pipe and thought about the
boy. He was thoroughly convinced that the child was Robert Burnham's
son, and all of his hopes and plans and ambitions, during these days,
were centred in the effort to have Ralph restored his family, and
to his rights as a member of that family. It would be such a fine
thing for the boy, he thought. In the first place, he could have an
education. Bachelor Billy reverenced an education. To him, it was
almost a personality. He held that, with an education, a man could
do anything short of performing miracles; that all possibilities of
goodness or greatness that the world holds were open to him. The very
first thing he would choose for Ralph would be an education. Then the
child would have wealth; that, too, would be a great thing for him
and, through him, for society. The poor would be fed, and the homeless
would be sheltered. He was so sure of the boy's honest heart and
moral firmness that he knew wealth would be a blessing to him and not
a curse.

And a beautiful home! Once he had been in Robert Burnham's house; and,
for days thereafter, its richness and beauty and its homelike air had
haunted him wherever he went. Yes, the boy would have a beautiful
home. He looked around on the bare walls and scanty furniture of his
own poor dwelling-place as if comparing them with the comforts and
luxuries of the Burnham mansion. The contrast was a sharp one, the
change would be great. But Ralph was so delicate in taste and fancy,
so high-minded, so pure-souled, that nothing would be too beautiful
for him, no luxury would seem strange, no life would be so exalted
that he could not hold himself at its level. The home that had haunted
Bachelor Billy's fancy was the home for Ralph, and there he should
dwell. But then--and the thought came suddenly and for the first time
into the man's mind--when the boy went there to live, he, Billy, would
be alone, _alone_. He would have no one to chatter brightly to him
at the dawn of day, no one to walk with him to their daily tasks at
Burnham Breaker, to eat from the same pail with him the dinner that
had been prepared for both, to come home with him at night, and fill
the bare room in which they lived with light and cheer enough to flood
a palace. Instead of that, every day would be like this day had been,
every night would be as dull and lonely as the night now passing.

How could he ever endure them?

He was staring intently into the fire, clutching his pipe in his hand,
and spilling from it the tobacco he had forgotten to smoke.

The lad would have a mother, too,--a kind, good, beautiful mother to
love him, to caress him, to do a million more things for him than his
Uncle Billy had ever done or ever could do. And the boy would love his
mother, he would love her very tenderly; he ought to; it was right
that he should; but in the beauty and sweetness of such a life as that
would Ralph remember him? How could he hope it? Yet, how could he bear
to be forgotten by the child? How could he ever bear it?

In his intensity of thought the man had risen to his feet, grasping
his clay pipe so closely that it broke and fell in fragments to the
hearth.

He looked around again on the bare walls of his home, down on his own
bent form, on his patched, soiled clothing and his clumsy shoes, then
he sank back into his chair, covered his face with his hands, and gave
way to tears. He had lived in this world too long not to know that
prosperity breeds forgetfulness, and he felt already in his heart a
foretaste of the bitterness that should overwhelm him when this boy,
whom he loved as his own child, should leave him alone, forgotten.

But after a time he looked up again. Pleasanter thoughts were in
his mind. They were thoughts of the days and nights that he and
the boy had spent together, from the time when he had found him,
sick, helpless, and alone, on the dusty highway, in the heat of the
midsummer sun, to these days that were now passing, with their strange
revelations, their bright hopes, their shadowy fears.

But in all his thought there was no touch of disappointment, no trace
of regret. It was worth it all, he told himself,--worth all the care
he had given to the boy, all the money he had spent to restore him
to health, worth all he had ever done or ever could do for him, just
to have had the lad with him for a year, a month, a week: why it was
worth it all and more, yes, vastly more, just to have felt the small
hand laid once on his arm, to have seen the loving eyes look up once
into his, and to have heard the clear voice say, "Dear Uncle Billy" in
the confiding way he knew so well.

It was nearly midnight when Bachelor Billy went to bed, and long after
that hour before he fell asleep.

He awoke several times during the night with a sense of loneliness
and desolation pressing down upon him, and he arose early to prepare
for his day's work. It was arranged at the breakfast-table that Mrs.
Maloney's oldest girl should go down to Lawyer Sharpman's office to
inquire about Ralph, and Billy was to come home at noon, contrary to
his custom, to hear her report.

Daylight is a great promoter of natural cheer, and the man went away
to his work with a strong hope in his heart of Ralph's speedy return;
and when the long morning had passed and he hurried back to his home,
he half expected that the boy would meet him on the way. But he was
disappointed; even Mrs. Maloney's girl had no news for him. She had
been to Sharpman's office twice, she said, and had not found him in,
though the clerk had told her that Mr. Sharpman had returned from
Wilkesbarre the day before.

Billy decided then that it was time to make active search for the boy,
and when he had finished a hurried dinner, he put on his best clothes
and started for the city. He thought it would be wise for him to
go first to Sharpman's office and learn what he could there. The
lawyer had not yet returned from lunch, but the clerk said he would
positively be in at half-past one, so Billy took the proffered chair,
and waited. Sharpman came promptly at the time, greeted his visitor
cordially, and took him into his private office.

"Well, my friend; what can I do for you?" he asked.

"I cam' to see aboot Ralph, sir; Ralph as lives wi' me."

"Oh! are you Buckley? William Buckley?"

"I am, sir. I want to know when saw ye the lad last?"

"Why, about eleven o'clock yesterday. He came up on the noon train,
didn't he?"

"I ha' no' seen 'im."

"Haven't seen him!" exclaimed Sharpman, in a voice expressive of much
alarm. "Haven't seen him since when, man?"

"Not sin' yester-mornin', when I said 'good-by' till the lad, an' went
t' the breaker. I got scared aboot 'im, an' cam' to look 'im oop."

Bachelor Billy had become infected with Sharpman's alarm.

"Well, we _must_ look him up," said the lawyer, putting on his hat,
which he had just laid aside, and taking up a light overcoat. "Come,
we'll go down to the station and see if we can learn anything of him
there."

Sharpman was really very anxious about the boy; it would interfere
sadly with his scheme to have Ralph disappear again, now. The two men
went out from the door together and down the street at a rapid pace.
But they had not taken two steps around the corner into Lackawanna
Avenue, when they came face to face with the missing boy. He was a
sorry sight, limping slowly along, covered with dust, exhausted from
his journey. He was no less surprised to meet Bachelor Billy and the
lawyer, than they were to meet him, and all three stood speechless,
for a moment, with astonishment.

"Why, Ralph!" exclaimed Billy, "Ralph, lad, whaur ye been?"

But Ralph did not know what to say. An overwhelming sense of shame
at his unfortunate adventure and at his wretched condition had come
suddenly to him, and the lawyer's sharp eyes, fixed steadily upon him,
increased his embarrassment not a little.

"Why don' ye speak, lad? Tell Uncle Billy what's happenit to ye; coom
noo!" and the man took the child's hands affectionately into his.

Then Ralph spoke. From a full heart, poor lad, he made his confession.

"Well, Uncle Billy, I got lost in Wilkesbarre; I wasn't used to it,
an' I went into a saloon there, an' they got all my money, an' I got
onto the train 'ithout a ticket, an' the conductor put me off, an' I
had to walk the rest o' the way home; an' I'm pirty tired, an' dirty,
an' 'shamed."

Sharpman laughed aloud.

"Ah! that's Wilkesbarre charity," he said; "you were a stranger, and
they took you in. But come, let's go back to my office and talk it
over."

Secluded in the lawyer's private room Ralph told the whole story of
his adventures from the time he left Sharpman at the court-house door.

When he had finished, Bachelor Billy said, "Puir lad!" then, turning
to Sharpman, "it was no' his fau't, thenk ye?"

"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, smiling, "any one might have met with the
same fate: dreadful town, Wilkesbarre is, dreadful! Have you had any
dinner, Ralph?"

"No, sir," said Ralph, "I haven't."

"Well, come into my wash-room and brighten yourself up a little.
You're somewhat travel-stained, as it were."

In ten minutes Ralph reappeared, looking clean and comparatively
fresh.

"Now," said Sharpman, "you don't resemble quite so strongly the man
who went down from Jerusalem to Jericho. Here, take this," reaching
out some money, "and go down to the restaurant on the corner and
surprise yourself with the best dinner you can buy. Oh, you can pay
it back," as the boy hesitated about accepting the money; "we'll call
it a loan if you like. Come, you agreed to obey my instructions, you
know. Buckley will wait here for you till you get back. Now, don't
hurry!" he said, as Ralph passed out at the door, "there's plenty of
time."

For some minutes after the boy's departure, Sharpman and Bachelor
Billy sat talking over Ralph's recent adventure. Then the conversation
turned to the prospect for the future, and they agreed that it was
very bright. Finally, the lawyer said:--

"He was pretty sick when you first found him, wasn't he?"

"He was that, verra bad indeed."

"Called a doctor for him, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes! Dr. Gunther. He comed every day for a for'night, an' often
he comed twice i' the same day. He was awfu' sick, the chil' was."

"Footed the doctor's bill, I suppose, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes, yes; but I did na min' that so long's the lad got well."

"Had to pay the woman to nurse him and look after him, I take it?"

"Oh! well, yes; but she needit the money, mon, an' the lad he needit
the noorsin', an' it was doin' a bit double good wi' ma siller, do ye
see?"

"Well, you've housed and clothed and fed the boy for a matter of three
years or thereabouts, haven't you?"

"Why, the lad's lived wi' me; he had a right to't. He's the same as my
own son'd be, min' ye."

"You collect his wages, I presume?"

"Oh, now! what'd I be doin' wi' the wee bit money that a baby like
him'd earn? He's a-savin' o' it. It ain't much, but mayhap it'll buy
a bit o' schoolin' for the lad some day. Ye s'ould see the braw way
he'll read an' write now, sir."

Sharpman sat for some time as if in deep thought. Finally, he said:--

"Look here, Buckley! You're a poor man; you can't afford to throw away
what little money you earn, nor to let an opportunity slip for turning
an honest penny. You have done a good deal for the boy; I don't see
why you shouldn't be rewarded."

"I've had ma reward, sir, i' the blessin' o' the lad's company."

"Yes, that's all very true, but a man must not rob himself; it's
not right. You are getting along in years; you should have a little
something to lay by for old age. We are sure to establish Ralph's
identity, and to recover his interest in his father's estate. I know
that the boy would be delighted to have you paid out of the funds that
would come into our hands, and I am very certain that Mrs. Burnham
would be proud to have your services acknowledged in that way. The
basis of compensation would not be so much the time, labor, and money
actually expended by you, as it would be the value of the property
rescued and cared for. That would figure into a very nice sum. I think
you had better let me manage it, and secure for you something to lay
by for a rainy day, or for old age that is sure to fall on you. What
do you say?"

But Bachelor Billy had risen to his feet, excited, and in earnest.

"I'm a poor mon, Muster Sharpman," he said, "an' money's worth a deal
to me, but I could na tak' it for a-doin' what I ha' for Ralph."

"Why, I am sure your services have been of infinite value, both to the
boy and to his mother."

"Mayhap! mayhap! that's no' for me to say. But I canna do it. I could
na look ony mon i' the eye wi' a cent o' the lad's money i' ma purse.
It'd seem as though I'd been a-doin' for 'im a' these years wi' a
purpose to get it back in siller some day, an' I never did; I never
thocht o' it, sir. The chil's been as free an' welcome as the sunshine
wi' me. The bit money I ha' spent, the bit care I ha' had wi' 'im, why
that was paid back wi' dooble interest the first week he could sit oop
i' the bed an' talk. It's a blessin' to hear the lad talk to ye. Na,
na! do what ye can for Ralph. Spare naught to get his rightfu' dues;
but me, there's not a penny comin' to me. I've had ma pay, an' that
lang sin', lang sin', do ye mind."

The lawyer waved his hand, as much as to say: "Very well, you're a
fool, but it's not my fault. I have placed the opportunity within your
reach; if you do not choose to grasp it, you're the loser, not I." But
Sharpman felt that he was the loser, nevertheless.

He knew that his shrewd scheme to use this honest man as a tool for
the furtherance of his own ends had fallen through, and that the
modest sum which he had expected to gain for himself in this way would
never be his.

He was not quite so cordial when Ralph returned from his dinner; and,
after a few words of admonition to the boy, he dismissed the pair, and
set himself diligently to the task of preparing a new scheme to take
the place of the one that had just vanished.




CHAPTER X.

AT THE BAR OF THE COURT.


When Ralph went to his work at the breaker on the morning after his
return from Wilkesbarre, he was met with curious glances from the men,
and wondering looks and abrupt questions from the boys. It had become
generally known that he claimed to be Robert Burnham's son, and that
he was about to institute proceedings, through his guardian, to
recover possession of his share of the estate. There was but little
opportunity to interrogate him through the morning hours: the flow of
coal through the chutes was too rapid and constant, and the grinding
and crunching of the rollers, and the rumbling and hammering of the
machinery, were too loud and incessant.

Ralph worked very diligently too; he was in the mood for work. He
was glad to be at home again and able to work. It was much better
than wandering through the streets of strange towns, without money
or friends. Nor were his hands and eyes less vigilant because of the
bright future that lay before him. He was so certain of the promised
luxuries, the beautiful home, the love of mother and sister, the means
for education,--so sure of them all that he felt he could well afford
to wait, and to work while waiting. This toil and poverty would last
but a few weeks, or a few months at the longest; after that there
would be a lifetime of pleasure and of peace and of satisfied
ambitions.

So hope nerved his muscles, and anticipation brought color to his
cheeks and fire to his eyes, and the thought of his mother's kiss
lent inspiration to his labor, and no boy that ever worked in Burnham
Breaker performed his task with more skill and diligence than he.

When the noon hour came the boys took their dinner-pails and ran down
out of the building and over on the hill-side, where they could lie on
the clean grass in the warm September sunshine, and eat and talk until
the bell should call them again to work.

Here, before the recess was over, Ralph joined them, feeling very
conscious, indeed, of his embarrassing position, but determined to
brave it out.

Joe Foster set the, ball rolling by asking Ralph how much he had to
pay his lawyer. Some one else followed it up with a question relating
to his expectations for the future, and in a very few minutes the boy
was the object of a perfect broadside of interrogations.

"Will you have a hoss of your own?" asked Patsey Welch.

"I don't know," was the reply; "that depen's on what my mother'll
think."

"Oh! she'll give you one if you want 'im, Mrs. Burnham will," said
another boy; "she'll give you everything you want; she's ter'ble good
that way, they say."

"Will you own the breaker, an' boss us boys?" came a query from
another quarter.

Before Ralph could reply to this startling and embarrassing question,
some one else asked:--

"How'd you find out who you was, anyway?"

"Why, my lawyer told me," was the reply.

"How'd he find out?"

"Well, a man told him."

"What man?"

"Now, look here, fellows!" said Ralph, "I ain't goin' to tell you
everything. It'd predujuice my case too much. I can't do it, I got no
right to."

Then a doubting Thomas arose.

"I ain't got nothin' agin him," he began, referring to Ralph, "he's a
good enough feller--for a slate-picker, for w'at I know; but that's
all he is; he ain't a Burnham, no more'n I be, if he was he wouldn't
be a-workin' here in the dirt; it ain't reason'ble."

Before Ralph could reply, some one took up the cudgel for him.

"Yes, he is too,--a Burnham. My father says he is, an' Lawyer Sharpman
says he is, an' you don't know nothin' 'bout it."

Whereupon a great confusion of voices arose, some of the boys denying
Ralph's claim of a right to participate in the privileges allotted to
the Burnham family, while most of them vigorously upheld it.

Finally, Ralph made his voice heard above the uproar:--

"Boys," he said, "they ain't no use o' quarrellin'; we'll all find out
the truth about it 'fore very long. I'm a-goin' to stay here an' work
in the breaker till the thing's settled, an' I want you boys to use me
jest as well as ever you did, an' I'll treat you jest the same as I
al'ays have; now, ain't that fair?"

"Yes, that's fair!" shouted a dozen boys at a time. "Hooray for Ralph
Burnham!" added another; "hooray!"

The cheers were given with a will, then the breaker bell rang, and the
boys flocked back to their work.

Ralph was as good as his word. Every morning he came and took his
place on the bench, and picked slate ten hours a day, just as the
other boys did; and though the subject of his coming prosperity was
often discussed among them, there was never again any malice or
bitterness in the discussion.

But the days and weeks and months went by. The snows of winter came,
and the north winds howled furiously about the towering heights of
Burnham Breaker. Morning after morning, before it was fairly light,
Ralph and Bachelor Billy trudged through the deep snow on their way to
their work, or faced the driving storms as they plodded home at night.
And still, so far as these two could see, and they talked the matter
over very often, no progress was being made toward the restoration of
Ralph to his family and family rights.

Sharpman had explained why the delay was expedient, not to say
necessary; and, though the boy tried to be patient, and was very
patient indeed, yet the unquiet feeling remained in his heart, and
grew.

But at last there was progress. A petition had been presented to
the Orphans' Court, asking for a citation to Margaret Burnham, as
administrator of her husband's estate, to appear and show cause why
she should not pay over to Ralph's guardian a sufficient sum of money
to educate and maintain the boy in a manner befitting his proper
station in life. An answer had been put in by Mrs. Burnham's attorney,
denying that Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham, and an issue had
been asked for to try that disputed fact. The issue had been awarded,
and the case certified to the Common Pleas for trial, and placed on
the trial list for the May term of court.

As the time for the hearing approached, the preparations for it grew
more active and incessant about Sharpman's office.

Old Simon had taken up his abode in Scranton for the time being, and
was on hand frequently to inform and advise. Witnesses from distant
points had been subpoenaed, and Ralph, himself, had been called on
several occasions to the lawyer's office to be interrogated about
matters lying within his knowledge or memory.

The question of the boy's identity had become one of the general
topics of conversation in the city, and, as the time for the trial
approached, public interest in the matter ran high.

In those days the courts were held at Wilkesbarre for the entire
district. Lackawanna County had not yet been erected out of the
northern part of Luzerne, with Scranton as its county seat.

There were several suits on the list for the May term that were to be
tried before the Burnham case would come on, so that Ralph did not
find it necessary to go to Wilkesbarre until Thursday of the first
week of court.

Bachelor Billy accompanied him. He had been subpoenaed as a witness,
and he was glad to be able to go and to have an opportunity to care
for the boy during the time of the trial.

Spring comes early in the valley of the Susquehanna; and, as the train
dashed along, Ralph, looking from the open window of the car, saw the
whole country white with the blossoms of fruit-bearing trees. The
rains had been frequent and warm, and the springing vegetation, rich
and abundant, reflected its bright green in the waters of the river
along all the miles of their journey. The spring air was warm and
sweet, white clouds were floating in the sky, birds were darting here
and there among the branches of the trees, wild flowers were unfolding
their modest beauty in the very shadow of the iron rails. Ralph saw
and felt it all, his spirit rose into accord with nature, and hope
filled his heart more abundantly than it ever had before.

When he and Bachelor Billy went into the court-room that afternoon,
Sharpman met them and told them that their case would probably not
be reached that day, the one immediately preceding it having already
taken much more time in the trial than had been expected. But he
advised them not to leave the city. So they went out and walked about
the streets a little, then they wandered down along the river bank,
and sat there looking out upon the water and discussing the method and
probable outcome of the trial.

When supper-time came, they went to their boarding-house, a cottage in
the suburbs, kept by a man who had formerly known Bachelor Billy in
Scranton.

The next morning when they went into court the lawyers were making
their addresses to the jury in the case that had been heard on the
previous day, and Ralph and Billy listened to the speeches with
much interest. The judge's charge was a long one, and before it
was concluded the noon-hour had come. But it was known, when court
adjourned, that the Burnham case would be taken up at two o'clock.
Long before that time, however, the benches in the court-room were
filled with people, and even the precincts of the bar were invaded.
The suit had aroused so much interest and excitement that hundreds
of people came simply to see the parties and hear the evidence in
the case.

At two o'clock Mr. Goodlaw entered, accompanied by Mrs. Burnham and
her little daughter, and all three took seats by a table inside
the bar.

Sharpman came in a few minutes later, and Simon Craft arose from his
place near the railing and went with him to another table. Ralph, who
was with Bachelor Billy down on a front bench, scarcely recognized the
old man at first, there was so marked a change in his appearance. He
had on a clean new suit of black broadcloth, his linen was white and
well arranged, and he had been freshly shaven. Probably he had not
presented so attractive an appearance before in many years. It was all
due to Sharpman's money and wit. He knew how much it is worth to have
a client look well in the eyes of a jury, and he had acted according
to his knowledge.

So Old Simon had a very grandfatherly air as he took his seat by the
side of his counsel and laid his cane on the floor beside him.

After arranging his papers on the table, Sharpman arose and looked
back over the crowded court-room. Finally, catching sight of Ralph,
he motioned to him to come inside the bar. The boy obeyed, but not
without embarrassment. He saw that the eyes of all the people in the
room were fixed on him as he crossed the open space and dropped into a
chair by the side of Craft. But he had passed Mrs. Burnham on his way,
and she had reached out her gloved hand and grasped his little one and
held him by her for a moment to look searchingly and longingly into
his face; and she had said to him some kind words to put him at his
ease, so that the situation was not so very trying, after all.

The clerk began to call a jury into the box. One by one they answered
to their names, and were scrutinized closely by the lawyers as they
took their places. Then Sharpman examined, carefully, the list of
jurors that was handed to him, and drew his pen through one of the
names. It was that of a man who had once suffered by reason of the
lawyer's shrewdness, and he thought it best to challenge him.

"Call another juror," he said, passing the list to Goodlaw, who also
struck a name from it, added a new one, and passed it back.

The jury was finally settled, the challenged men were excused, and the
remaining twelve were duly sworn.

Then Sharpman arose to open his case. With rapid detail he went over
the history of Ralph's life from the time of the railroad accident
to the day of the trial. He dwelt upon Simon Craft's kindness to the
child, upon his energetic search for the unknown parents, and, later,
for the boy himself; of his final success, of his constant effort in
Ralph's behalf, and his great desire, now, to help him into the family
and fortune to which his birth entitled him. "We shall show to you all
of these facts, gentlemen of the jury," said Sharpman, in conclusion.
"We shall prove to you, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that this boy is
Margaret Burnham's son and an heir to Robert Burnham's estates; and,
having done so, we shall expect a verdict at your hands."

The lawyer resumed his seat, spent a few moments looking over his
papers, and then said, in a tone of mingled respect and firmness:--

"We desire, if your Honor please, to call Mrs. Burnham for the purpose
of cross-examination."

"That is your privilege under the law," said the judge.

"Mrs. Burnham," continued Sharpman, "will you kindly take the stand?"

"Certainly," replied the lady.

She arose, advanced to the witness-stand, received the oath, and took
her chair with a matronly dignity and kindly grace that aroused the
sympathy and admiration of all who saw her. She gave her name, the
date of her marriage to Robert Burnham, the fact of his death, and the
names and ages of her children. In the course of the examination, she
was asked to describe the railway journey which ended in the disaster
at Cherry Brook, and to give the details of that disaster as she
remembered them.

"Can you not spare me that recital, sir?" she said.

"No one would be more willing or glad to do so, madam," responded
Sharpman, "than I, but the whole future of this fatherless boy is
hanging upon this examination, and I dare not do it. I will try to
make it easier for you, however, by interrogation."

She had hidden her face in her hands a moment before; now she raised
it, pallid, but fixed with strong determination.

"Go on," she said, "I will answer you."

Sharpman stood for a moment as if collecting his thoughts, then he
asked: "Did you and your husband, accompanied by your child Ralph and
his nurse, leave your home in Scranton on the thirteenth day of May,
1859, to go by rail to the city of Philadelphia?"

"We did."

"Was the car in which you were riding well filled?"

"It was not; no, sir."

"How many children were in that car besides your son?"

"Only one."

"A boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"About how old?"

"About Ralph's age, I should think."

"With whom was he travelling?"

"With an elderly gentleman whom he called, 'Grandpa.'"

"Before you reached Philadelphia, did the bridge over Cherry Creek
give way and precipitate the car in which you were riding into the bed
of the stream?"

"It did; yes, sir."

"Immediately before that occurred where was your child?"

"He was sitting with his nurse in the second seat ahead of us."

"And the other child, where was he?"

"Just across the aisle."

"Did you see that other child after the accident?"

"I did not; I only know that he survived it."

"How do you know it?"

"We learned, on inquiry, that the same old gentleman and little
child went on to the city in the train which carried the rescued
passengers."

"You and your husband were both injured in the disaster, were you
not?"

"We were."

"And the nurse lost her life?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long was it after the accident before you began the search for
your child?"

"It was nearly three days afterward before we were sufficiently
recovered to be able to do anything."

"Did you find any trace of him?"

"None whatever."

"Any clothing or jewelry?"

"Only a few trinkets in the ashes of the wreck."

"Is it your belief that Ralph perished in that disaster?"

"It is; yes, sir."

"Would it take strong evidence to convince you to the contrary?"

"I think it would."

"Ralph," said Sharpman, turning to the boy, "stand up!"

The lad arose.

"Have you seen this boy before?" continued the lawyer, addressing the
witness again.

"I have," she replied, "on several occasions."

"Are you familiar with his face, his expression, his manner?"

"To a great extent--yes, sir."

"Do you recognize him as your son Ralph?"

She looked down, long and searchingly, into the boy's face, and then
replied, deliberately, "No, sir, I do not."

"That is all, Mrs. Burnham."

Ralph was surprised and disappointed. He had not quite expected this.
He had thought she would say, perhaps, that she would receive him as
her son when his claim was duly proven. He would not have wondered
at that, but that she should positively, under oath, deny their
relationship to each other, had not been to him, before, within the
range of possibility. His brightness and enthusiasm were quenched
in a moment, and a chill crept up to his heart, as he saw the lady
come down from the witness-stand, throw her widow's veil across her
face, and resume her seat at the table. The case had taken on a new,
strange, harsh aspect in his sight. It seemed to him that a barrier
had been suddenly erected between him and the lady whom he had learned
to love as his mother; a barrier which no verdict of the jury or
judgment of the court, even though he should receive them, would help
him to surmount.

Of what use were these things, if motherly recognition was to be
denied him? He began to feel that it would be almost better to go back
at once to the not unpleasant home with Bachelor Billy, than to try to
grasp something which, it now seemed, was lying beyond his reach.

He was just considering the advisability of crossing over to Sharpman
and suggesting to him that he was willing to drop the proceedings,
when that person called another witness to the stand. This was a
heavily built man, with close-cropped beard, bronzed face, and one
sleeve empty of its arm. He gave his name as William B. Merrick, and
said that he was conductor of the train that broke through the Cherry
Brook bridge, on the night of May 13, 1859.

"Did you see, on your train that night," asked Sharpman, "the witness
who has just left the stand?"

"I cannot be positive," the man replied, "but, to the best of my
recollection, the lady was a passenger in the rear car."

"With whom was she travelling?"

"With a gentleman whom I afterward learned was her husband, a little
boy some two or three years of age, and the child's nurse."

"Were there any other children on the train?"

"Yes, one, a boy of about the same age, riding in the same car in
company with an elderly gentleman."

"Did you see either of these children after the disaster?"

"I saw one of them."

"Which one?"

"I supposed, at the time, that it was the one who accompanied the old
gentleman."

"Why did you suppose so?"

"Because I saw a child who bore marks of having been in the wreck
riding in the car which carried the rescued passengers to the city,
and he was in company with an elderly man."

"Was he the same elderly man whom you saw with the child before the
accident?"

"I cannot say; my attention was not particularly called to him before
the accident; but I supposed he was the one, from the fact of his
having the child with him."

"Could you, at this time, recognize the man whom you saw with the
child after the accident?"

"I think so. I took especial notice of him then."

"Look at this old gentleman, sitting by me," said Sharpman, waving his
hand toward Craft, "and tell me whether he is the one."

The man turned his eyes on Old Simon, and looked at him closely for a
full minute.

"Yes," he replied, "I believe he is the one. He has grown older and
thinner, but I do not think I am mistaken."

Craft nodded his head mildly in assent, and Sharpman continued:--

"Did you take particular notice of the child's clothing as you saw it
after the accident; could you recognize, at this time, the principal
articles of outside wear that he had on?"

"I think I could."

Sharpman paused as if in thought.

After he had whispered for a moment with Craft, he said to the
witness:--

"That is all, for the present, Mr. Merrick." Then he turned to the
opposing counsel and said:--

"Mr. Goodlaw, you may take the witness."

Goodlaw fixed his glasses more firmly on his nose, consulted briefly
with his client, and then began his cross-examination.

After drawing out much of the personal history of the witness, he went
with him into the details of the Cherry Brook disaster.

Finally he asked:--

"Did you know Robert Burnham in his lifetime?"

"A gentleman by that name called on me a week after the accident to
make inquiries about his son."

"Did you say to him, at that time, that the child must have perished
in the wreck?"

"I think I did; yes, sir."

"On what did you base your opinion?"

"On several circumstances. The nurse with whom he was sitting was
killed outright; it would seem to have been impossible for any one
occupying that seat to have escaped instant death, since the other
car struck and rested at just that point. Again, there were but two
children on the train. It took it for granted that the old man and
child whom I saw together after the accident were the same ones whom I
had seen together before it occurred."

"Did you tell Mr. Burnham of seeing this old man and child after the
accident?"

"I did; yes, sir."

"Did you not say to him positively, at that time, that they were the
same persons who were sitting together across the aisle from him
before the crash came?"

"It may be that I did."

"And did you not assure him that the child who went to the city, on
the train that night after the accident was not his son?"

"I may have done so. I felt quite positive of it at that time."

"Has your opinion in that matter changed since then?"

"Not as to the facts; no, sir; but I feel that I may have taken too
much for granted at that time, and have given Mr. Burnham a wrong
impression."

"At which time, sir, would you be better able to form an opinion,--one
week after this accident occurred, or ten years afterward?"

"My opinion is formed on the facts; and I assure you that they were
not weighted with such light consequences for me that I have easily
forgotten them. If there were any tendency to do so, I have here a
constant reminder," holding up his empty sleeve as he spoke. "My
judgment is better, to-day, than it was ten years ago. I have learned
more; and, looking carefully over the facts in this case in the light
I now have, I believe it possible that this son of Robert Burnham's
may have been saved."

"That will do," said Goodlaw. The witness left the stand, and the
judge, looking up at the clock on the wall, and then consulting his
watch, said:--

"Gentlemen, it is nearly time to adjourn court. Mr. Sharpman, can you
close your case before adjourning time?"

"That will be impossible, your Honor."

"Then, crier, you may adjourn the court until to-morrow morning at
nine o'clock."

The crier made due proclamation, the spectators began to crowd out of
the room, the judge left the bench, and the lawyers gathered up their
papers. Ralph, on his way out, again passed by Mrs. Burnham, and she
had for him a smile and a kind word. Bachelor Billy stood waiting at
the door, and the boy went down with him to their humble lodgings in
the suburbs, his mind filled with conflicting thoughts, and his heart
with conflicting emotions.




CHAPTER XI.

THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE.


When court opened on Saturday morning, all the persons interested in
the Burnham suit were present, and the court-room was crowded to even
a greater extent than it had been on the previous day. Sharpman began
the proceedings by offering in evidence the files of the Register's
court, showing the date of Robert Burnham's death, the issuing
of letters of administration to his widow, and the inventory and
appraisement of his personal estate.

Then he called Simon Craft to the witness-stand. There was a stir of
excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and
to hear his evidence.

The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat,
leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the
examination to begin. He looked across the bar into the faces of the
people with the utmost calmness. He was perfectly at his ease. He knew
that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material
respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to
tell it effectually. It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that
constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts
as a witness in other cases.

The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc.,
were answered with alacrity.

Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:--

"Do you know this boy?"

"I do," answered Craft, unhesitatingly.

"What is his name?"

"Ralph Burnham."

"When did you first see him?"

"On the night of May 13, 1859."

"Under what circumstances?"

This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and
witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon,
clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and
began.

He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the
accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some
one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. He
corroborated conductor Merrick's story of the meeting on the train
which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation
which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it.

He told of his attempts to find the child's friends during the few
days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which
he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night
of the accident. From that point, he went on with an account of his
continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to
the lad's identity, of his final success, of Ralph's unaccountable
disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat.

He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an
extent, and his sympathy for the child's parents was such, that he
could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him.

He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was
taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the
boy's whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery
at the tent in Scranton.

"Well," said Sharpman, "when you had found the boy, what did you do?"

"I went, the very next day," was the reply, "to Robert Burnham to tell
him that his son was living."

"What conversation did you have with him?"

"I object," interposed Goodlaw, "to evidence of any alleged
conversation between this witness and Robert Burnham. Counsel should
know better than to ask for it."

"The question is not a proper one," said the judge.

"Well," continued Sharpman, "as a result of that meeting what were you
to do?"

"I was to bring his son to him the following day."

"Did you bring him?"

"I did not."

"Why not?"

"Mr. Burnham died that night."

"What did you do then?"

"I went to you for advice."

"In pursuance of that advice, did you have an interview with the boy
Ralph?"

"I did."

"Where?"

"At your office."

"Did you explain to him the facts concerning his parentage and
history?"

"They were explained to him."

"What did he say he wished you to do for him?"

Goodlaw interrupted again, to object to the testimony offered as
incompetent and thereupon ensued an argument between counsel, which
was cut short by the judge ordering the testimony to be excluded, and
directing a bill of exceptions to be sealed for the plaintiff.

The hour for the noon recess had now come, and court was adjourned to
meet again at two o'clock.

When the afternoon session was called, Sharpman announced that he was
through with the direct examination of Craft.

Then Goodlaw took the witness in hand. He asked many questions about
Craft's personal history, about the wreck, and about the rescue of the
child. He demanded a full account of the way in which Robert Burnham
had been discovered, by the witness and found to be Ralph's father. He
called for the explicit reason for every opinion given, but Old Simon
was on safe ground, and his testimony remained unshaken.

Finally, Goodlaw asked:--

"What is your occupation, Mr. Craft?" and Craft answered: "I have no
occupation at present, except to see that this boy gets his rights."

"What was your occupation during the time that this boy lived with
you?"

"I was a travelling salesman."

"What did you sell?"

"Jewelry, mostly."

"For whom did you sell the jewelry?"

"For myself, and others who employed me."

"Where did you obtain the goods you sold?"

"Some of it I bought, some of it I sold on commission."

"Of whom did you buy it?"

"Sometimes I bought it at auction, or at sheriff's sales; sometimes of
private parties; sometimes of manufacturers and wholesalers."

Goodlaw rose to his feet. "Now, as a matter of fact, sir," he said,
sternly, "did not you retail goods through the country that had been
furnished to you by your confederates in crime? and was not your house
in the city a place for the reception of stolen wares?"

Craft's cane came to the floor with a sharp rap. "No, sir!" he
replied, with much indignation; "I have never harbored thieves, nor
sold stolen goods to my knowledge. You insult me, sir!"

Goodlaw resumed his seat, looked at some notes in pencil on a slip of
paper, and then resumed the examination.

"Did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?" he asked.

"Well, you see, we had pretty hard work sometimes to get along and get
enough to eat, and--"

"I say, did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?"

"Well, I'm telling you that sometimes we had either to beg or to
starve. Then the boy went out and asked aid from wealthy people."

"Did you send him?"

"Yes, I did; but not against his will."

"Did you sometimes whip him for not bringing back money to you from
his begging excursions?"

"I punished him once or twice for telling falsehoods to me."

"Did you beat him for not bringing money to you when you sent him out
to beg?"

"He came home once or twice when I had reason to believe that he had
made no effort to procure assistance for us, and--"

Goodlaw rose to his feet again.

"Answer my question!" he exclaimed. "Did you beat this boy for not
bringing back money to you when you had sent him out to beg?"

"Yes, I did," replied Craft, now thoroughly aroused, "and I'd do it
again, too, under the same circumstances."

Then he was seized with a fit of coughing that racked his feeble body
from head to foot. A tipstaff brought him a glass of water, and he
finally recovered.

Goodlaw continued, sarcastically,--

"When you found it necessary to correct this boy by the gentle
persuasion of force, what kind of a weapon did you use?"

The witness answered, mildly enough, "I had a little strip of leather
that I used when it was unavoidably necessary."

"A rawhide, was it?"

"I said a little strip of leather. You can call it what you choose."

"Was it the kind of a strip of leather commonly known as a rawhide?"

"It was."

"What other mode of punishment did you practise on this child besides
rawhiding him?"

"I can't recall any."

"Did you pull his ears?"

"Probably."

"Pinch his flesh?"

"Sometimes."

"Pull his hair?"

"Oh, I shouldn't wonder."

"Knock him down with your fist?"

"No, sir! never, never!"

"Did you never strike him with the palm of your hand?"

"Well, I have slapped him when my patience with him has been
exhausted."

"Did any of these slaps ever happen to push him over?"

"Why, he used to tumble onto the floor sometimes, to cry and pretend
he was hurt."

"Well, what other means of grandfatherly persuasion did you use in
correcting the child?"

"I don't know of any."

"Did you ever lock him up in a dark closet?"

"I think I did, once or twice; yes."

"For how long at a time?"

"Oh, not more than an hour or two."

"Now, didn't you lock him up that way once, and keep him locked up all
day and all night?"

"I think not so long as that. He was unusually stubborn. I told him he
could come out as soon as he would promise obedience. He remained in
there of his own accord."

"Appeared to like it, did he?"

"I can't say as to that."

"For how long a time did you say he stayed there?"

"Oh, I think from one afternoon till the next."

"Did he have anything to eat during that time?"

"I promised him abundance if he would do as I told him."

"Did he have anything to eat?" emphatically.

"No!" just as emphatically.

"What was it he refused to do?"

"Simply to go on a little errand for me."

"Where?"

"To the house of a friend."

"For what purpose?"

"To get some jewelry."

"Was the jewelry yours?"

"I expected to purchase it."

"Had it been stolen?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Did the boy think it had been stolen?"

"He pretended to."

"Was that the reason he would not go?"

"It was the reason he gave."

"Have the city police found stolen goods on your premises?"

"They have confiscated goods that were innocently purchased by me;
they have robbed me."

"Did you compel this boy to lie to the officers when they came?"

"I made him hold his tongue."

"Did you make him lie?"

"I ordered him not to tell where certain goods were stored in the
house, on pain of being thrashed within an inch of his life. The goods
were mine, bought with my money, and it was none of their business
where they were."

"Did you not command the boy to say that there were no such goods in
the house?"

"I don't know--perhaps; I was exasperated at the outrage they were
perpetrating in the name of law."

"Then you did make him lie?"

"Yes, if you call it lying to protect your own property from robbers,
I did make him lie!"

"More than once?"

"I don't know."

"Did you make him steal?"

"I made him take what belonged to us."

"Did you make him _steal_, I say!"

"Call it what you like!" shouted the angered and excited old man.
He had become so annoyed and harassed by this persistent, searching
cross-examination that he was growing reckless and telling the truth
in spite of himself. Besides, it seemed to him that Goodlaw must know
all about Ralph's life with him, and he dared not go far astray in his
answers.

But the lawyer knew only what Craft himself was disclosing. He based
each question on the answers that had preceded it, long practice
having enabled him to estimate closely what was lying in the mind of
the witness.

"And so," continued Goodlaw, "when you returned from one of your trips
into the country you found that the boy had disappeared?"

"He had."

"Were you surprised at that?"

"Yes, I was."

"Had you any idea why he went away?"

"None whatever. He was well fed and clothed and cared for."

"Did it ever occur to you that the Almighty made some boys with hearts
so honest that they had rather starve and die by the roadside than be
made to lie and steal at home?"

The old man did not answer, he was too greatly surprised and angered
to reply.

"Well," said Sharpman, calmly, "I don't know, if your Honor please,
that the witness is bound to be sufficiently versed in the subject of
Christian ethics to answer questions of that kind."

"He need not answer it," said the judge.

Then Sharpman continued, more vehemently: "The cross-examination,
as conducted by the eminent counsel, has, thus far, been simply an
outrage on professional courtesy. I ask now that the gentleman be
confined to questions which are germane to the issue and decently
put."

"I have but a few more questions to ask," said Goodlaw.

Turning to the witness again, he continued: "If you succeed in
establishing this boy's identity, you will have a bill to present for
care and moneys expended and services performed on his account, will
you not?"

"I expect so; yes, sir."

"As the service continued through a period of years, the bill will
amount now to quite a large sum, I presume?"

"Yes, I nave done a good deal for the boy."

"You expect to retain the usual commission for your services as
guardian, do you not?"

"I do."

"And to control the moneys and properties that may come into your
hands?"

"Well--yes."

"About how much money, all together, do you expect to make out of this
estate?"

"I do not look on it in that light, sir; I am taking these proceedings
simply to compel you and your client to give that boy his rights."

This impudent assertion angered Goodlaw, who well knew the object of
the plot, and he rose from his chair, saying deliberately:--

"Do you mean to swear that this is not a deep-laid scheme on the part
of you and your attorney to wrest from this estate enough to make a
fortune for you both? Do you mean to say mat you care as much for this
boy's rights as you do for the dust in your path?"

Craft's face paled, and Sharpman started to his feet, red with
passion.

"This is the last straw!" he exclaimed, hoarsely; "now I intend"--

But the judge, fearing an uncontrollable outbreak of temper,
interrupted him, saying:--

"Your witness need not answer the question in that form, Mr. Sharpman.
Mr. Goodlaw, do you desire to cross-examine the witness further?"

Goodlaw had resumed his seat and was turning over his papers.

"I do not care to take up the time of the court any longer," he said,
"with this witness."

"Then, Mr. Sharpman, you may proceed with further evidence."

But Sharpman was still smarting from the blow inflicted by his
opponent. "I desire, first," he said, "that the court shall take
measures to protect me and my client from the unfounded and insulting
charges of counsel for the defence."

"We will see," said the judge, "that no harm comes to you or to your
cause from irrelevant matter interjected by counsel. But let us get on
with the case. We are taking too much time."

Sharpman turned again to his papers and called the name of "Anthony
Henderson."

An old man arose in the audience, and made his way feebly to the
witness-stand, which had just been vacated by Craft.

After he had been sworn, he said, in reply to questions by Sharpman,
that he was a resident of St. Louis; that in May, 1859, he was on his
way east with his little grandson, and went down with the train that
broke through the bridge at Cherry Brook.

He said that before the crash came he had noticed a lady and gentleman
sitting across the aisle from him, and a nurse and child a few seats
further ahead; that his attention had been called to the child
particularly, because he was a boy and about the age of his own little
grandson.

He said he was on the train that carried the rescued passengers to
Philadelphia after the accident, and that, passing through the car,
he had seen the same child who had been with the nurse now sitting
with an old man; he was sure the child was the same, as he stopped
and looked at him closely. The features of the old man he could not
remember. For two days he searched for his grandson, but being met, on
every hand, by indisputable proof that the child had perished in the
wreck, he then started on his return journey to St. Louis, and had not
since been east until the week before the trial.

"How did the plaintiff in this case find you out?" asked Goodlaw, on
cross-examination.

"I found him out," replied the witness. "I learned, from the
newspapers, that the trial was to take place; and, seeing that it
related to the Cherry Brook disaster, I came here to learn what little
else I might in connection with my grandchild's death. I went, first,
to see the counsel for the plaintiff and his client."

"Have you learned anything new about your grandson?"

"No, sir; nothing."

"Have you heard from him since the accident?"

"I have not."

"Are you sure he is dead?"

"I have no doubt of it."

"Can you recognize this boy," pointing to Ralph, "as the one whom you
saw with the nurse and afterward with the old man on the night of the
accident?"

"Oh, no! he was a mere baby at that time."

"Are you positive that the boy in court is not your grandson?"

"Perfectly positive, there is not the slightest resemblance."

"That will do."

The cross-examination had done little more than to strengthen the
direct testimony. Mrs. Burnham had thrown aside her veil and gazed
intently at the witness from the moment he went on the stand. She
recognized him as the man who sat across the aisle from her, with his
grandchild, on the night of the disaster, and she knew that he was
telling the truth. There seemed to be no escape from the conclusion
that it was her child who went down to the city that night with Simon
Craft. Was it her child who escaped from him, and wandered, sick and
destitute, almost to her own door? Her thought was interrupted by
the voice of Sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was
calling the name of another witness: "Richard Lyon!"

A young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand.

"What is your occupation?" asked Sharpman, after the man had given his
name and residence.

"I'm a driver for Farnum an' Furkison."

"Who are Farnum and Furkison?"

"They run the Great European Circus an' Menagerie."

"Have you ever seen this boy before?" pointing to Ralph.

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Three years ago this summer."

"Where?"

"Down in Pennsylvania. It was after we left Bloomsburg, I think, I
picked 'im up along the road an' give 'im a ride on the tiger wagon."

"How long did he stay with you?"

"Oh, I don't remember; four or five days, maybe."

"What did he do?"

"Well, not much; chored around a little."

"Did he tell you where he came from?"

"No, nor he wouldn't tell his name. Seemed to be afraid somebody'd
ketch 'im; I couldn't make out who. He talked about some one he called
Gran'pa Craft two or three times w'en he was off his guard, an' I
reckoned from what he said that he come from Philadelphy."

"Where did he leave you?"

"Didn't leave us at all. We left him; played the desertion act on
'im."

"Where?"

"At Scranton."

"Why?"

"Well, he wasn't much use to us, an' he got sick an' couldn't do
anything, an' the boss wouldn't let us take 'im no further, so we left
'im there."

"Are you sure this is the boy?"

"Oh, yes! positive. He's bigger, an' looks better now, but he's the
same boy, I know he is."

"Cross-examine."

This last remark was addressed to the defendant's attorney.

"I have no questions to ask," said Goodlaw, "I have no doubt the
witness tells the truth."

"That's all," said Sharpman, quickly; then, turning again toward the
court-room, he called:

"William Buckley!"

Bachelor Billy arose from among the crowds on the front benches, and
made his way awkwardly around the aisle and up to the witness-stand.
After the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered, he
waited, looking out over the multitude of faces turned toward him,
while Sharpman consulted his notes.

"Do you know this boy?" the lawyer asked, pointing to Ralph.

"Do I know that boy?" repeated Billy, pointing also to Ralph, "'deed I
do that. I ken 'im weel."

"When did you first see him?"

"An he's the son o' Robert Burnham, I seen 'im first i' the arms o'
'is mither a matter o' ten year back or so. She cam' t' the breaker
on a day wi' her gude mon, an' she had the bairnie in her arms. Ye'll
remember it, na doot, Mistress Burnham," turning to that lady as he
spoke, "how ye said to me 'Billy,' said ye, 'saw ye ever so fine a
baby as'"--

"Well, never mind that," interrupted Sharpman; "when did you next see
the boy?"

"Never till I pickit 'im up o' the road."

"And when was that?"

"It'll be three year come the middle o' June. I canna tell ye the
day."

"On what road was it?"

"I'll tell ye how it cam' aboot. It was the mornin' after the circus.
I was a-comin' doon fra Providence, an' when I got along the ither
side o' whaur the tents was I see a bit lad a-layin' by the roadside,
sick. It was him," pointing to Ralph and smiling kindly on him, "it
was Ralph yonner. I says to 'im, 'What's the matter wi' ye, laddie?'
says I. 'I'm sick,' says 'e, 'an' they've goned an' lef me.' 'Who's
lef' ye?' says I. 'The circus,' says he. 'An' ha' ye no place to go?'
says I. 'No,' says 'e, 'I ain't; not any.' So I said t' the lad as he
s'ould come along wi' me. He could na walk, he was too sick, I carried
'im, but he was no' much o' a load. I took 'im hame wi' me an' pit
'im i' the bed. He got warse, an' I bringit the doctor. Oh! but he
was awfu' sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu' as ye
please. An' the Widow Maloney she 'tended 'im like a mither, she did."

"Did you find out where he came from?"

"Wull, he said little aboot 'imsel' at the first, he was a bit
afraid to talk wi' strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam'
fra Philadelphy. He tellit me, in fact," said Billy, in a burst of
confidence, "that 'e rin awa' fra th'auld mon, Simon Craft, him that's
a-settin' yonner. But it's small blame to the lad; ye s'ould na lay
that up again' 'im. He _had_ to do it, look ye! had ye not, eh,
Ralph?"

Before Ralph could reply, Sharpman interrupted: "And has the boy been
with you ever since?"

"He has that, an' I could na think o' his goin' awa' noo, an it would
na be for his gret good."

"In your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you
noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found
among the boys who work about the mines? I mean, do his manners, modes
of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better
blood than ordinary?"

"Why, yes," replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, "yes. He
has a way wi' 'im, the lad has, that ye'd think he did na belong amang
such as we. He's as gentle as a lass, an' that lovin', why, he's that
lovin' that ye could na speak sharp till 'im an ye had need to. But
ye'll no' need to, Mistress Burnham, ye'll no' need to."

The lady was sitting with her veil across her face, smiling now and
then, wiping away a tear or two, listening carefully to catch every
word.

Then the witness was turned over to the counsel for the defence, for
cross-examination.

"What else has the boy done or said to make you think he is of gentler
birth than his companions in the breaker?" asked Goodlaw, somewhat
sarcastically.

"Why, the lad does na swear nor say bad words."

"What else?"

"He's tidy wi' the clothes, an' he _wull_ be clean."

"What else?"

"What else? wull, they be times when he says things to ye so quick
like, so bright like, so lofty like, 'at ye'd mos' think he was na
human like the rest o' us. An' 'e fears naught, ye canna mak' 'im
afeard o' doin' what's richt. D'ye min' the time 'e jumpit on the
carriage an' went doon wi' the rest o' them to bring oot the burnit
uns? an' cam' up alive when Robert Burnham met his death? Ah, mon! no
coward chiel 'd 'a' done like that."

"Might not a child of very lowly birth do all the things you speak of
under proper training and certain influences?"

"Mayhap, but it's no' likely, no' likely. Hold! wait a bit! I dinna
mean but that a poor mon's childer can be bright, braw, guid boys an'
girls; they be, I ken mony o' them mysel'. But gin the father an' the
mither think high an' act gentle an' do noble, ye'll fin' it i' the
blood an' bone o' the childer, sure as they're born. Now, look ye! I
kenned Robert Burnham, I kenned 'im weel. He was kind an' gentle an'
braw, a-thinkin' bright things an' a-doin' gret deeds. The lad's like
'im, mind ye; he thinks like 'im, he says like 'im, he does like 'im.
Truth, I daur say, i' the face o' all o' ye, that no son was ever more
like the father than the lad a-settin' yonner is like Robert Burnham
was afoor the guid Lord took 'im to 'imsel'."

Bachelor Billy was leaning forward across the railing of the
witness-stand, speaking in a voice that could be heard in the remotest
corner of the room, emphasizing his words with forceful gesticulation.
No one could for a moment doubt his candor and earnestness.

"You are very anxious that the plaintiff should succeed in this suit,
are you not?" asked Goodlaw.

"I dinna unnerstan' ye, sir."

"You would like to have this boy declared to be a son of Robert
Burnham, would you not?"

"For the lad's sake, yes. But I canna tell ye how it'll hurt me to
lose 'im fra ma bit hame. He's verra dear to me, the lad is."

"Have you presented any bill to Ralph's guardian for services to the
boy?"

"Bill! I ha' no bill."

"Do you not propose to present such a bill in case the plaintiff is
successful in this suit?"

"I tell ye, mon, I ha' no bill. The child's richt welcome to all that
I 'a' ever done for 'im. It's little eneuch to be sure, but he's
welcome to it, an' so's 'is father an' 'is mother an' 'is gardeen; an'
that's what I tellit Muster Sharpman 'imsel'. An the lad's as guid to
them as 'e has been wi' me, they'll unnerstan' as how his company's a
thing ye canna balance wi' gold an' siller."

Mrs. Burnham leaned over to Goodlaw and whispered something to him. He
nodded, smiled and said to the witness: "That's all, Mr. Buckley," and
Bachelor Billy came down from the stand and pushed his way back to a
seat among the people.

There was a whispered conversation for a few moments between Sharpman
and his client, and then the lawyer said:--

"We desire to recall Mrs. Burnham for one or two more questions. Will
you be kind enough to take the stand, Mrs. Burnham?"

The lady arose and went again to the witness-stand.

Craft was busy with his leather hand-bag. He had taken a parcel
therefrom, unwrapped it and laid it on the table. It was the cloak
that Old Simon had shown to Robert Burnham on the day of the mine
disaster. Sharpman took it up, shook it out, carried it to Mrs.
Burnham, and placed it in her hands.

"Do you recognize this cloak?" he asked.

A sudden pallor overspread her face. She could not speak. She
was holding the cloak up before her eyes, gazing on it in mute
astonishment.

"Do you recognize it, madam?" repeated Sharpman.

"Why, sir!" she said, at last, "it is--it was Ralph's. He wore it the
night of the disaster." She was caressing the faded ribbons with her
hand; the color was returning to her face.

"And this, Mrs. Burnham, do you recognize this?" inquired the lawyer,
advancing with the cap.

"It was Ralph's!" she exclaimed, holding out her hands eagerly to
grasp it. "It was his cap. May I have it, sir? May I have them both? I
have nothing, you know, that he wore that night."

She was bending forward, looking eagerly at Sharpman, with flushed
face and eyes swimming in tears.

"Perhaps so, madam," he said, "perhaps; they go with the boy. If we
succeed in restoring your son to you, we shall give you these things
also."

"What else have you that he wore?" she asked, impatiently. "Oh! did
you find the locket, a little gold locket? He wore it with a chain
round his neck; it had his--his father's portrait in it."

Without a word, Sharpman placed the locket in her hands. Her fingers
trembled so that she could hardly open it. Then the gold covers parted
and revealed to her the pictured face of her dead husband. The eyes
looked up at her kindly, gently, lovingly, as they had always looked
on her in life. After a moment her lips trembled, her eyes filled with
tears, she drew the veil across her face, and her frame grew tremulous
with deep emotion.

"I do not think it is necessary," said Sharpman, courteously, "to pain
the witness with other questions. I regard the identification of these
articles, by her, as sufficiently complete. We will excuse her from
further examination."

The lady left the stand with bowed head and veiled face, and Conductor
Merrick was recalled.

"Look at that cloak and the cap," said Sharpman, "and tell me if they
are the articles worn by the child who was going to the city with this
old man after the accident."

"To the best of my recollection," said the witness, "they are the
same. I noticed the cloak particularly on account of the hole burned
out of the front of it. I considered it an indication of a very narrow
escape."

The witness was turned over to the defence for cross-examination.

"No questions," said Goodlaw, shortly, gathering up his papers as if
his defeat was already an accomplished fact.

"Mr. Craft," said Sharpman, "stand up right where you are. I want to
ask you one question. Did the child whom you rescued from the wreck
have on, when you found him, this cap, cloak, and locket?"

"He did."

"And is the child whom you rescued that night from the burning car
this boy who is sitting beside you here to-day?"

"They are one and the same."

Mrs. Burnham threw back her veil, looked steadily across at Ralph,
then started to her feet, and moved slightly toward him as if to clasp
him in her arms. For a moment it seemed as though there was to be a
scene. The people in the audience bent forward eagerly to look into
the bar, those in the rear of the room rising to their feet.

The noise seemed to startle her, and she sank back into her chair and
sat there white and motionless during the remainder of the session.

Sharpman arose. "I believe that is our case," he said.

"Then you rest here?" asked the judge.

"We rest."

His Honor continued: "It is now adjourning time and Saturday night. I
think it would be impossible to conclude this case, even by holding an
evening session; but perhaps we can get through with the testimony so
that witnesses may be excused. What do you say, Mr. Goodlaw?"

Goodlaw arose. "It may have been apparent to the court," he said,
"that the only effort being put forth by the defence in this case is
an effort to learn as much of the truth as possible. We have called no
witnesses to contradict the testimony offered, and we expect to call
none. But, lest something should occur of which we might wish to take
advantage, we ask that the evidence be not closed until the meeting of
court on Monday next."

"Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Sharpman?" inquired the judge.

"Perfectly," replied that lawyer, his face beaming with good nature.
He knew that Goodlaw had given up the case and that his path was now
clear.

"Then, crier," said the judge, "you may adjourn the court until Monday
next, at two o'clock in the afternoon."




CHAPTER XII.

AT THE GATES OF PARADISE.


The result of the trial seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Every one
said there was no doubt, now, that Ralph was really Robert Burnham's
son. People even wondered why Mrs. Burnham did not end the matter by
acknowledging the boy and taking him to her home.

And, indeed, this was her impulse and inclination, but Goodlaw, in
whose wisdom she put much confidence, had advised her not to be in
haste. They had had a long consultation after the adjournment of court
on Saturday evening, and had agreed that the evidence pointed, almost
conclusively, to the fact that Ralph was Mrs. Burnham's son. But the
lawyer said that the only safe way was to wait until the verdict of
the jury should fix the status of the boy beyond question. It would be
but a day or two at the most.

Then Ralph might be taken by his mother, and proceedings could be at
once begun to have Simon Craft dismissed from the post of guardian.
Indeed, it had been with this end in view that Goodlaw had made his
cross-examination of Craft so thorough and severe. He had shown, as
he intended to, from the man's own lips that he was unfit to have
possession either of the child or of his property.

This danger was now making itself more and more apparent to Sharpman.
In the excitement of the trial, he had not fully realized the probable
effect which the testimony elicited from his client by the opposing
counsel might have.

Now he saw what it could lead to; but he had sufficient confidence in
himself to believe that, in the time before action in that phase of
the case should become necessary, he could perfect a plan by which to
avert disaster. The first and best thing to be done, however, under
any circumstances, was to keep the confidence and friendship of
Ralph. With this thought in mind, he occupied a seat with the boy as
they rode up from Wilkesbarre on the train that night, and kept him
interested and amused until they reached the station at Scranton.

He said to him that he, Sharpman, should go down to Wilkesbarre early
on Monday morning, and that, as it might be necessary to see Ralph
before going, the boy had better call at his office for a few moments
on Sunday evening. Ralph promised to do so, and, with a cordial
handshake, the lawyer hurried away.

It is seldom that the probable outcome of a suit at law gives so great
satisfaction to all the parties concerned in it as this had done.
Simon Craft was jubilant. At last his watching and waiting, his hoping
and scheming, were about to be rewarded. It came in the evening of
his life to be sure, but--better late than never. He had remained in
Wilkesbarre Saturday night. He thought it useless to go up to Scranton
simply to come back again on Monday morning. He spent the entire day
on Sunday planning for the investment of the money he should receive,
counting it over and over again in anticipation, chuckling with true
miserly glee at the prospect of coming wealth.

But Ralph was the happiest one of all. He knew that on the coming
Monday the jury would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son.

After that, there would be nothing to prevent his mother from taking
him to her home, and that she would do so there was no longer any
doubt. When he awoke Sunday morning and thought it all over, it seemed
to him that he had never been so near to perfect happiness in all his
life before.

The little birds that came and sang in the elm-tree by his window
repeated in their songs the story of his fortune. The kind old sun
beamed in upon him with warmest greeting and heartiest approval.

Out-of-doors, the very atmosphere of the May day was redolent with
all good cheer, and Ralph took great draughts of it into his lungs
as he walked with Bachelor Billy to the little chapel at the foot of
the hill, where they were used to going to attend the Sunday morning
service. In the afternoon they went, these two, out by the long way to
the breaker. Ralph looked up at the grim, black monster, and thought
of the days gone by; the days of watchfulness, of weariness, of
hopeless toil that he had spent shut up within its jarring walls.

But they were over now. He should never again climb the narrow steps
to the screen-room in the darkness of the early morning. He should
never again take his seat on the black bench to bend above the stream
of flowing coal, to breathe the thick dust, and listen to the rattling
and the roaring all day long. That time had passed, there was to be no
more grinding toil, no more harsh confinement in the heat and dust,
no more longing for the bright sunlight and the open air, nor for the
things of life that lay beyond his reach. The night was gone, the
morning was come, the May day of his life was dawning, wealth was
lying at his feet, rich love was overshadowing him; why should he not
be happy?

"Seems jest as though I hadn't never had any trouble, Uncle Billy," he
said, "as though I'd been kind o' waitin' an' waitin' all along for
jest this, an' now it's here, ain't it?"

"Yes, lad."

"An' some way it's all so quiet an' smooth like, so peaceful, don't
you know. She--she seems to be so glad 'at she needn't keep me away
from her no longer after the trial's over. I think she wants me to
come, don't you? It ain't like most law-suits, is it?"

"She's a lovin' lady, an' I'm a-thinkin' they're a-meanin' to deal
rightly by ye, Ralph."

There was a pause. They were sitting on the bank in the shadow of
the breaker, and the soft wind was bringing up to them the perfume
of apple-blossoms from the orchard down by the road-side. Silence,
indeed, was the only means of giving fitting expression to such quiet
joy as pervaded the boy's heart.

A man, driving along the turnpike with a horse and buggy, turned up
the road to the breaker, and stopped in front of Bachelor Billy and
the boy.

"Is this Ralph?" he asked.

"Yes," said the boy, "that's me."

"Well, Mrs. Burnham would like to see you. She sent me over to bring
you. I went to your house, and they said most likely I'd find you up
here. Just jump in and we'll drive right down."

Ralph looked up inquiringly at Bachelor Billy.

"Go on, lad," he said; "when the mither sen's for ye, ye mus' go."
Ralph climbed up into the buggy.

"Good-by, Uncle Billy," he called out, as they started away down the
hill.

Bachelor Billy did not answer. A sudden thought had come to him; a
sudden fear had seized him. He stood for a moment motionless; then he
started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran. They
heard him and stopped. In a minute he had reached them.

"Ralph," he said, hastily, "ye're not goin' now for gude? Ye'll coom
back the nicht, won't ye, Ralph? I couldn't--I couldn't abide to have
ye go this way, not for gude. It's--it's too sudden, d'ye see."

His voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips
was heightened by the forced smile that parted them. Ralph reached out
from the buggy and grasped the man's rough hand.

"I ain't leavin' you for good, Uncle Billy," he said. "I'm comin' back
agin, sure; I promise I will. Would you ruther I wouldn't go, Uncle
Billy?"

"Oh, no! ye mus' go. I shouldn't 'a' stoppit ye. It was verra fulish
in me. But ye see," turning to the driver apologetically, "the lad's
been so long wi' me it's hard to part wi' 'im. An' it cam' ower me
so sudden like, that mayhap he'd not be a-comin' back, that I--that
I--wull, wull! it's a' richt, ye need na min' me go on; go on, lad,
an' rich blessin's go wi' ye!" and Bachelor Billy turned and walked
rapidly away.

This was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of Ralph's
happiness. He would have to leave Bachelor Billy alone. But he had
fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days
of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were
now at hand.

His mind was full of plans for his Uncle Billy's happiness and
welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with
the Sunday quiet resting on them, to the House where Ralph's mother
waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son.

She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home
until after the conclusion of the trial. He had explained to her that
to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain
event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. And the
time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait.
She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of
court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. Then,
when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence.

That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was
nothing. She would not think of that. It was only a prejudice fixed
by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly
rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out.

But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that
Ralph was not her son. He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best
that could come to him, and she loved him. Indeed, during these last
few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange
and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could
satisfy it. She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly
to its close, would result in giving to her a son. It was a strange
defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. On this peaceful Sunday
morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his
happiness and his education. But the more she thought upon him the
greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became
to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his
face, to hold him in her arms. In the quiet of the afternoon this
longing became more intense. She tried to put it away from her, but it
would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy's face, rising
always in her thought, refuted all her logic. She felt that he must
come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into
his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by. She
called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the
window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear.

He came at last, and she met him in the hall. It was a welcome such as
he had never dreamed of. They went into a beautiful room, and she drew
his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth
his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked
with him. She made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from
the time he could remember, and when he told about Bachelor Billy
and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled
with tears.

"We'll remember him," she said; "we'll be very good to him always."

"Mrs. Burnham," asked Ralph, "do you really an' truly believe 'at I'm
your son?"

She evaded the question skilfully.

"I'm not Mrs. Burnham to you any more," she said. "You are my little
boy now and I am your mother. But wait! no; you must not call me
'mother' yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each
other the names we like best, shall we not?"

"Yes; an' will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?"

"I hope so. I shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?"

"Oh, yes; but so long as it's comin' out so nice, I don't care so very
much. It's all so good now 'at it couldn't be much better. I could
stan' it another day or two, I guess."

"Well, my dear, we will be patient. It cannot but come out right. Are
you glad you are coming here to live with me, Ralph?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am; I'm very much delighted. I've always wanted a
mother; you don't know how much I've wanted a mother; but I never
'xpected--not till Gran'pa Simon come--I never 'xpected to get such a
lovely one. You don't know; I wisht I could tell you; I wisht I could
do sumpthin' so 'at you'd know how glad I am."

She leaned over and kissed him.

"There's only one thing you can do, Ralph, to show me that; you can
come back here when the trial is over and be my boy and live with me
always."

"Oh, I'll come!"

"And then we'll see what you shall do. Would you like to go to school
and study?"

"Oh, may I?"

"Certainly! what would you like to study?"

"Readin'. If I could only study readin' so as to learn to read real
good. I can read some now; but you know they's such lots o' things to
read 'at I can't do it fast enough."

"Yes, you shall learn to read fast, and you shall read to me. You
shall read books to me."

"What! whole books?--through?"

"Yes, would you like that?"

"Oh!" and the boy clasped his hands together in unspeakable delight.

"Yes, and you shall read stories to Mildred, your little sister. I
wonder where she is; wouldn't you like to see her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I would, very much."

"I'll send for her."

"You'll have books of your own, you know," continued the lady, as she
returned across the room, "and playthings of your own, and a room of
your own, near mine, and every night you'll kiss me good-night, will
you not, and every morning you will kiss me good-morning?"

"Oh, indeed I will! indeed!"

In through the curtained door-way came little Mildred, her blond
curls tossing about her face, her cheeks rosy with health, her eyes
sparkling with anticipation.

She had seen Ralph and knew him, but as yet she had not understood
that he was her brother. She could not comprehend it at once, there
were many explanations to be made, and Ralph's story was retold; but
when the fact of his relation to her became fixed in her mind, it was
to her a truth that could never afterward be shaken.

"And will you come to live with us?" she asked him.

"Yes," said Ralph, "I 'xpect to."

"And will you play with me?"

"Well, I--I don't know how to play girl's plays, but I guess I can
learn," he said, looking inquiringly up into his mother's face.

"You shall both learn whatever you like that is innocent and healthful
and pretty to play, my children."

The house-maid, at the door, announced dinner.

"Come," said the lady, placing an arm about each child, "come, let us
eat together and see how it seems."

She drew them gently to the dining-room and placed them at the table,
and sat where she could look from one to the other and drink in the
joy of their presence.

But Ralph had grown more quiet. It was all so new and strange to him
and so very beautiful that he could do little more than eat his food,
and answer questions, and look about him in admiring wonder.

When dinner was finished the afternoon had grown late, and Ralph,
remembering Bachelor Billy's fear, said that he ought to go. They did
not try to detain him; but, with many kind words and good-wishes and
bright hopes for the morrow, they kissed him good-night and he went
his way. The sky was still cloudless; the cool of the coming evening
refreshed the air, the birds that sing at twilight were already
breaking forth into melody as if impatient for the night, and Ralph
walked out through it all like one in a dream.

It was so much sweeter than anything he had ever heard of or thought
of, this taste of home, so much, so very much! His heart was like a
thistle bloom floating in the air, his feet seemed not to touch the
ground; he was walking as a spirit might have walked, buoyed up by
thoughts of all things beautiful. He reached the cottage that for
years had been his home, and entered it with a cry of gladness on
his lips.

"Oh, Uncle Billy! it was--it was just like heaven!" He had thrown
himself upon a stool at the man's feet, and sat looking up into the
kindly face.

Bachelor Billy did not answer. He only placed his hand tenderly on the
boy's head, and they both sat, in silence, looking out through the
open door, until the pink clouds in the western sky had faded into
gray, and the deepening twilight wrapped the landscape, fold on fold,
in an ever thickening veil.

By and by Ralph's tongue was loosened, and he told the story of his
visit to Mrs. Burnham. He gave it with all fulness; he dwelt long and
lovingly on his mother's beauty and affection, on his sister's pretty
ways, on the splendors of their home, on the plans marked out for him.

"An' just to think of it!" he exclaimed, "after to-morrow, I'll be
there ev'ry day, _ev'ry day_. It's too beautiful to think of, Uncle
Billy; I can't help lookin' at myself an' wonderin' if it's me."

"It's verra fine, but ye've a richt to it, lad, an' ye desarve it, an'
it's a blessin' to all o' ye."

Again they fell into silence. The blue smoke from Billy's pipe went
floating into the darkness, and up to their ears came the sound of
distant church bells ringing out their music to the night.

Finally, Ralph thought of the appointed meeting at Sharpman's office,
and started to his feet.

"I mus' hurry now," he said, "or he'll think I ain't a-comin'."

The proposed visit seemed to worry Bachelor Billy somewhat. He did
not like Sharpman. He had not had full confidence in him from the
beginning. And since the interview on the day of Ralph's return from
Wilkesbarre, his faith in the pureness of the lawyer's motives had
been greatly shaken. He had watched the proceedings in Ralph's case as
well as his limited knowledge of the law would allow, and, though he
had discovered nothing, thus far, that would injure or compromise the
boy, he was in constant fear lest some plan should be developed by
which Ralph would be wronged, either in reputation or estate.

He hesitated, therefore, to have the lad fulfil this appointment.

"I guess I'd better go wi' ye," he said, "mayhap an' ye'll be afeared
a-comin' hame i' the dark."

"Oh, no, Uncle Billy!" exclaimed the boy, "they ain't no use in your
walkin' way down there. I ain't a bit afraid, an' I'll get home
early. Mr. Sharpman said maybe it wouldn't be any use for me to go to
Wilkesbarre to-morrow at all, and he'd let me know to-night. No, don't
you go! I'm a-goin' to run down the hill so's to get there quicker;
good-by!"

The boy started off at a rapid pace, and broke into a run as he
reached the brow of the hill, while Bachelor Billy unwillingly resumed
his seat, and watched the retreating form of the lad until it was
swallowed up in the darkness.

Ralph thought that the night air was very sweet, and he slackened his
pace at the foot of the hill, in order to enjoy breathing it.

He was passing along a street lined with pretty, suburban dwellings.
Out from one yard floated the rich perfume of some early flowering
shrub. The delicious odor lingered in the air along the whole length
of the block, and Ralph pleased his fancy by saying that it was
following him.

Farther on there was a little family group gathered on the porch,
parents and children, talking and laughing, but gently as became the
day. Very happy they seemed, very peaceful, untroubled and content. It
was beautiful, Ralph thought, very beautiful, this picture of home,
but he was no longer envious, his heart did not now grow bitter nor
his eyes fill full with tears. His own exceeding hope was too great
for that to-night, his own home joys too near and dear.

Still farther on there was music. He could look into the lighted
parlor and see the peaceful faces of those who stood or sat there. A
girl was at the piano playing; a young, fair girl with a face like the
faces of the pictured angels. They were all singing, a familiar sacred
song, and the words came floating out so sweetly to the boy's ears
that he stopped to listen:--

  "O Paradise! O Paradise!
    Who doth not crave for rest?
  Who would not seek the happy land,
    Where they that loved are blest;
  Where loyal hearts and true
    Stand ever in the light,
  All rapture through and through,
    In God's most holy sight?"

Oh, it was all so beautiful! so peaceful! so calm and holy!

Ralph tried to think, as he started on, whether there was anything
that he could have, or see, or do, that would increase his happiness.
But there was nothing in the whole world now, nothing more, he said to
himself, that he could think to ask for.

  "Where loyal hearts and true,
  Stand ever in the light."

The words came faintly from the distance to his ears as the music died
away, the gentle wind brought perfumed air from out the shadows of the
night to touch his face. The quiet stars looked down in peace upon
him, the heart that beat within his breast was full with hope, with
happiness, with calm content.




CHAPTER XIII.

THE PURCHASE OF A LIE.


Lawyer Sharpman sat in his office on Sunday evening, meditating on his
success in the Burnham suit and planning to avert the dangers that
still lay in his path.

Old Simon's disclosures in court were a source of much anxiety to him.
Goodlaw's design in bringing them out was apparent, and he felt that
it must in some way be thwarted. Of what use was it to establish the
boy's identity if he could not control the boy's fortune? He was glad
he had asked Ralph to call. He intended, when he should come, to have
a long talk with him concerning his guardian. He hoped to be able to
work into the boy's mind a theory that he had been as well treated
during his stay with Simon Craft as circumstances would permit. He
would remind him, in the most persuasive manner possible, that Craft
was old and ill and easily annoyed, that he was poor and unable to
work, that his care for and maintenance of Ralph were deeds of the
purest generosity, and that the old man's entire connection with the
matter was very creditable to him, when all the adverse circumstances
against which he had to struggle were taken into account. If he could
impress this view of the case strongly enough upon Ralph's mind, he
should not greatly fear the result of possible proceedings for the
dismissal of the guardian. This, at any rate, was the first thing to
be done, and to-night was the time to do it.

He had been lying back in his chair, with his hands locked behind his
head. He now straightened himself, drew closer to the table, turned up
the gas, looked over some notes of evidence, and began to mark out a
plan for his address to the jury on the morrow. He was sitting in the
inner room, the door between that and the outer room being open, but
the street door closed.

After a little he heard some one enter and walk across the floor. He
thought it must be Ralph, and he looked up to welcome him. But it was
dark in the outer office, and he could not see who came, until his
visitor was fairly standing in the door-way of his room.

It was not Ralph. It was a young man, a stranger. He wore a pair of
light corduroy pantaloons, a checked vest, a double-breasted sack
coat, and a flowing red cravat.

He bowed low and said:--

"Have I the honor of addressing Mr. Sharpman, attorney at law?"

"That is my name," said the lawyer, regarding his visitor with some
curiosity, "will you walk in?"

"With pleasure, sir."

The young man entered the room, removed his high silk hat from his
head, and laid it on the table, top down. Then he drew a card case
from an inner pocket, and produced and handed to the lawyer a soiled
card on which was printed in elaborate letters the following name and
address:--

L. JOSEPH CHEEKERTON,

PHILADELPHIA.

"_Rhyming Joe_."

While Sharpman was examining the card, his visitor was forming in his
mind a plan of procedure. He had come there with a carefully concocted
lie on his tongue to swindle the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of
enough money to fill an empty purse.

"Will you be seated, Mr. Cheekerton?" said the lawyer, looking up from
the card.

"Thank you, sir!"

The young man drew the chair indicated by Sharpman closer to the
table, and settled himself comfortably into it.

"It is somewhat unusual, I presume," he said, "for attorneys to
receive calls on Sunday evening:--

  "But this motto I hold as a part of my creed,
  The better the day, why, the better the deed.

"Excuse me! Oh, no; it doesn't hurt. I've been composing extemporaneous
verse like that for fifteen years. Philosophy and rhyme are my forte.
I've had some narrow escapes to be sure, but I've never been deserted
by the muses. Now, as to my Sunday evening call. It seemed to be
somewhat of a necessity, as I understand that the evidence will be
closed in the Burnham case at the opening of court to-morrow. Am
I right?"

"It may be, and it may not be," said Sharpman, somewhat curtly. "I am
not acquainted with the plans of the defence. Are you interested in
the case?"

"Indirectly, yes. You see, Craft and I have been friends for a good
many years, we have exchanged confidences, and have matured plans
together. I am pretty well acquainted with the history of his
successes and his failures."

"Then it will please you to know that he is pretty certain to meet
with success in the Burnham suit."

"Yes? I am quite delighted to hear it:--

  "Glad to know that wit and pluck
  Bring their owner such good-luck.

"But, between you and me, the old gentleman has brought some faculties
to bear on this case besides wit and pluck."

"Ah, indeed?"

"Yes, indeed! You see, I knew all about this matter up to the time
the boy ran away. To tell the truth, the old man didn't treat the lad
just right, and I gave the little fellow a pointer on getting off. Old
Simon hasn't been so friendly to me since, for some reason.

  "Strange what trifles oft will tend
  To cool the friendship of a friend.

"In fact, I was not aware that the boy had been found, until I heard
that fact from his own lips one day last fall, in Wilkesbarre. We
met by a happy chance, and I entertained him on account of old
acquaintance's sake."

In a moment the story of Ralph's adventure in Wilkesbarre returned to
Sharpman, and he recognized Rhyming Joe as the person who had swindled
the lad out of his money. He looked at the young man sternly, and
said:--

"Yes; I have heard the story of that chance meeting. You were
very liberal on account of old acquaintance's sake, were you not?
entertained the boy till his pocket was empty, didn't you?" and the
lawyer cast a look of withering contempt on his visitor.

But Rhyming Joe did not wither. On the contrary, he broke into a merry
fit of laughter.

"Good joke on the lad, wasn't it?" he replied. "A little rough,
perhaps, but you see I was pretty hard up just then; hadn't had a
square meal before in two days. I'll not forget the boy's generosity,
though; I'll call and see him when he comes into his fortune; he'll be
delighted to receive me, I've no doubt.

  "For a trifle like that he'll remember no more,
  In the calm contemplation of favors of yore."

But, let that pass. That's a pretty shrewd scheme Old Simon has on
foot just now, isn't it? Did he get that up alone or did he have a
little legal advice? I wouldn't have said that he was quite up to it
all, himself. It's a big thing.

  "A man may work hard with his hands and his feet
  And find but poor lodging and little to eat.
  But if he would gather the princeliest gains
  He must smother his conscience and cudgel his brains."

Sharpman looked sternly across at his visitor. "Have you any business
with me?" he said; "if not, my time is very valuable, and I desire to
utilize it."

"I beg pardon, sir, if I have occupied time that is precious to you.
I had no particular object in calling except to gratify a slight
curiosity. I had a desire to know whether it was really understood
between you--that is whether the old man had enlightened you as to who
this boy actually is--that's all."

"There's no doubt as to who the boy is. If you've come here to give me
any information on that point, your visit will have been useless. His
identity is well established."

"Yes? Well, now I have the good-fortune to know all about that child,
and if you are laboring under the impression that he is a son of
Robert Burnham, you are very greatly mistaken. He is not a Burnham at
all."

Sharpman looked at the young man incredulously. "You do not expect
me to believe that?" he said. "You certainly do not mean what you
are saying?"

There was a noise in the outer room as of some one entering from
the street. Sharpman did not hear it; he was too busily engaged in
thinking. Rhyming Joe gave a quick glance at the room door, which
stood slightly ajar, then, turning in his chair to face the lawyer, he
said deliberately and with emphasis:--

"I say the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son."

For a moment Sharpman sat quietly staring at his visitor; then, in a
voice which betrayed his effort to remain calm, he said:--

"What right have you to make such a statement as this? How can you
prove it?"

"Well, in the first place I knew the boy's father, and he was not
Robert Burnham, I assure you."

"Who was he?"

"Simon Craft's son."

"Then Ralph is--?"

"Old Simon's grandchild."

"How do you happen to know all this?"

"Well, I saw the child frequently before he was taken into the
country, and I saw him the night Old Simon brought him back. He was
the same child. The young fellow and his wife separated, and the old
man had to take the baby. I was on confidential terms with the old
fellow at that time, and he told me all about it."

"Then he probably deceived you. The evidence concerning the railroad
disaster and the rescue of Robert Burnham's child from the wreck is
too well established by the testimony to be upset now by such a story
as yours."

"Ah! let me explain that matter to you. The train that went through
the bridge was the express. The local was twenty minutes behind it.
Old Simon and his grandchild were on the local to the bridge. An
hour later they came down to the city on the train which brought the
wounded passengers. I had this that night from the old man's own lips.
I repeat to you, sir, the boy Ralph is Simon Craft's grandson, and I
know it."

In the outer room there was a slight noise as of some person drawing
in his breath sharply and with pain. Neither of the men heard it.
Rhyming Joe was too intent on giving due weight to his pretended
disclosure; Lawyer Sharpman was too busy studying the chances of
that disclosure being true. It was evident that the young man was
acquainted with his subject. If his story were false he had it too
well learned to admit of successful contradiction. It was therefore of
no use to argue with him, but Sharpman thought he would see what was
lying back of this.

"Well," he said, calmly, "I don't see how this affects our case.
Suppose you can prove your story to be true; what then?"

The young man did not answer immediately. He took a package of
cigarettes from his pocket and offered one to Sharpman. It was
declined. He lighted one for himself, leaned back in his chair,
crossed his legs, and began to study the ceiling through the rings
of blue smoke which came curling from his nostrils. Finally he said:
"What would you consider my silence on this subject worth, for a
period of say twenty-four hours?"

"I do not know that your silence will be of material benefit to us."

"Well, perhaps not. My knowledge, however, may be of material injury
to you."

"In what way?"

"By the disclosure of it to your opponent."

"What would he do with it?"

"Use it as evidence in this case."

"Well, had you not better go to him?"

Rhyming Joe laid his cigarette aside, straightened up in his chair,
and again faced the lawyer squarely.

"Look here, Mr. Sharpman," he said, "you know, as well as I do, that
the knowledge I hold is extremely dangerous to you. I can back up
my assertion by any amount of corroborative detail. I am thoroughly
familiar with the facts, and if I were to go on the witness-stand
to-morrow for the defendant in this suit, your hopes and schemes would
vanish into thin air. Now, I have no great desire to do this; I have
still a friendly feeling left for Old Simon, and as for the boy, he
is a nice fellow, and I would like to see him prosper. But in my
circumstances, as they are at present, I do not feel that I can afford
to let slip an opportunity to turn an honest penny.

  "If a penny saved is a penny earned,
  Then a penny found is a penny turned."

Sharpman was still looking calmly at his visitor. "Well?" he said,
inquiringly.

"Well, to make a long story short, if I get two hundred dollars
to-night, I keep my knowledge of Simon Craft and his grandson to
myself. If I don't get two hundred dollars to-night, I go to Goodlaw
the first thing to-morrow morning and offer my services to the
defence. I propose to make the amount of a witness fee out of this
case, at any rate."

"You are attempting a game that will hardly work here," said Sharpman,
severely. "You will find yourself earning two hundred dollars for the
state in the penitentiary of your native city if you persist in that
course."

"Very well, sir; you have heard my story, you have my ultimatum. You
are at liberty to act or not to act as you see fit. If you do not
choose to act it will be unnecessary for me to prolong my visit. I
will have to rise early in the morning, in order to get the first
Wilkesbarre train, and I must retire without delay.

  "The adage of the early bird,
  My soul from infancy has stirred,
  And since the worm I sorely need
  I'll practise, now, that thrifty creed."

Rhyming Joe reached for his hat.

Sharpman was growing anxious. There was no doubt that the fellow
might hurt them greatly if he chose to do so. His story was not an
improbable one. Indeed, there was good reason to believe that it might
be true. His manner tended to impress one with its truth. But, true or
false, it would not do to have the statement get before that jury. The
man must be detained, to give time for further thought.

"Don't be in a hurry," said Sharpman, mildly; "let's talk this matter
over a little more. Perhaps we can reach an amicable understanding."

Rhyming Joe detected, in an instant, the weakening on the lawyer's
part, and increased his audacity accordingly.

"You have heard my proposition, Mr. Sharpman," he said; "it is the
only one I shall make, and I must decline to discuss the matter
further. My time, as I have already intimated, is of considerable
value to me."

"But how can you expect me to decide on your proposition without first
consulting my client? He is in Wilkesbarre. Give us time. Wait until
morning; I'll go down on the first train with you."

"No, I don't care to have Old Simon consulted in this matter; if I
had cared to, I should have consulted him myself; I know where he is.
Besides, his interest in the case is very small compared with yours.
You are to get the lion's share, that is apparent, and you, of course,
are the one to pay the cost. It is necessary that I should have the
money to-night; after to-night it will be too late."

Sharpman arose and began pacing up and down the room. He was inclined
to yield to the man's demand. The Burnham suit was drawing rapidly to
a successful close. If this fellow should go on the witness-stand and
tell his plausible story, the entire scheme might be wrecked beyond
retrieval. But it was very annoying to be bulldozed into a thing in
this way. The lawyer's stubborn nature rebelled against it powerfully.
It would be a great pleasure, he thought, to defy the fellow and turn
him into the street. Then a new fear came to him. What would be the
effect of this man's story, with its air of genuineness, on the mind
of so conscientious a boy as Ralph? He surely could not afford to
have Ralph's faith interfered with; that would be certain to bring
disaster.

He made up his mind at once. Turning quickly on his heel to face his
visitor, he said:--

"I want you to understand that I'm not afraid of you nor of your
story, but I don't want to be bothered with you. Now, I'll tell you
what I'll do. I'll give you one hundred dollars in cash to-night, on
condition that you will leave this town by the first train in the
morning, that you'll not go to Wilkesbarre, that you'll not come back
here inside of a year, and that you'll not mention a word of this
matter to any one so long as you shall live."

The lawyer spoke with determined earnestness. Rhyming Joe looked up at
the ceiling as if in doubt.

Finally, he said:--

  "Split the difference and call it even,
  A hundred and fifty and I'll be leavin'."

Sharpman was whirling the knob of his safe back and forth. At last he
flung open the safe-door.

"I don't care," he said, looking around at his visitor, "whether your
story is true or false. We'll call it true if that will please you.
But if I ever hear of your lisping it again to any living person, I
give you my word for it you shall be sorry. I pay you your own price
for your silence; now I want you to understand that I've bought it and
it's mine."

He had taken a package of bank-notes from a drawer in his safe, had
counted out a portion of them, and now handed them to Rhyming Joe.

"Certainly," said the young man, "certainly; no one can say that I
have ever failed to keep an honest obligation; and between you and me
there shall be the utmost confidence and good faith.

  "Though woman's vain, and man deceives,
  There's always honor among--gentlemen.

"I beg your pardon! it's the first time in fifteen years that I have
failed to find an appropriate rhyming word; but the exigencies of a
moment, you will understand, may destroy both rhyme and reason."

He was folding the bills carefully and placing them in a shabby purse
while Sharpman looked down on him with undisguised ill will.

"Now," said the lawyer, "I expect that you will leave the city on the
first train in the morning, and that you will not stop until you have
gone at least a hundred miles. Here! here's enough more money to pay
your fare that far, and buy your dinner"; and he held out, scornfully,
toward the young man, another bank-bill.

Rhyming Joe declined it with a courteous wave of his hand, and,
rising, began, with much dignity, to button his coat.

"I have already received," he said, "the _quid pro quo_ of the
bargain. I do not sue for charity nor accept it. Reserve your
financial favors for the poor and needy.

  "Go find the beggar crawling in the sun,
     Or him that's worse;
   But don't inflict your charity on one
     With well filled purse."

Sharpman looked amused and put the money back into his pocket. Then a
bit of his customary politeness returned to him.

"I shall not expect to see you in Scranton again for some time, Mr.
Cheekerton," he said, "but when you do come this way, I trust you will
honor me with a visit."

"Thank you, sir. When I return I shall expect to find that your
brilliant scheme has met with deserved success; that old Craft has
chuckled himself to death over his riches; and that my young friend
Ralph is happy in his new home, and contented with such slight remnant
of his fortune as may be left to him after you two are through with
it. By the way, let me ask just one favor of you on leaving, and
that is that the boy may never know what a narrow escape he has had
to-night, and may never know that he is not really the son of Robert
Burnham. It would be an awful blow to him to know that Old Simon is
actually his grandfather; and there's no need, now, to tell him.

  "'Where ignorance is bliss,' you know the rest,
  And a still tongue is generally the best."

"Oh, no, indeed! the boy shall hear nothing of the kind from me. I am
very much obliged to you, however, for the true story of the matter."

Under the circumstances Sharpman was outdoing himself in politeness,
but he could not well outdo Rhyming Joe. The young man extended his
hand to the lawyer with a respectful bow.

"I shall long remember your extreme kindness and courtesy," he said.

  "Henceforth the spider of a friendship true,
  Shall weave its silken web twixt me and you."

My dear sir, I wish you a very good night!"

"Good-night!"

The young man placed his silk hat jauntily on his head, and passed
through the outer office, whistling a low tune; out at the street door
and down the walk; out into the gay world of dissipation, down into
the treacherous depths of crime; one more of the many who have chained
bright intellects to the chariot wheels of vice, and have been dragged
through dust and mire to final and to irretrievable disaster.

A moment later a boy arose from a chair in the outer office and
staggered out into the street. It was Ralph. He had heard it all.




CHAPTER XIV.

THE ANGEL WITH THE SWORD.


Ralph had entered the office just as Rhyming Joe reached the point of
his disclosure. He had heard him declare, in emphatic tones: "I say
the boy Ralph is not Robert Burnham's son."

It was as though some one had struck him. He dropped into a chair and
sat as if under a spell, listening to every word that was uttered. He
was powerless to move or to speak until the man who had told the cruel
story had passed by him in the dark and gone down the walk into the
street.

Then he arose and followed him; he did not know just why, but it
seemed as if he must see him, if only to beg him to declare that the
story he had just heard him tell was all a lie. And yet Ralph believed
that Rhyming Joe had told the truth. Why should he not believe him
when Sharpman himself had put such faith in the tale as to purchase
the man's silence with money. But if the story were true, if it _were_
true, then it should be known; Mrs. Burnham should know it, Mr.
Goodlaw should know it, Mr. Sharpman should not conceal it, Rhyming
Joe must not be allowed to depart until he had told it on the
witness-stand, in open court. He must see him, Ralph thought; he must
find him, he must, in some way, compel him to remain. The sound of the
man's footsteps had not yet died away as the boy ran after him along
the street, but half-way down the block his breath grew short, his
heart began to pound against his breast, he pressed his hand to his
side as if in pain, and staggered up to a lamp-post for support.

When he recovered sufficiently to start on, Rhyming Joe had passed
out of both sight and hearing. Ralph hurried down the street until he
reached Lackawanna Avenue, and there he stopped, wondering which way
to turn. But there was no time to lose. If the man should escape him
now he might never see him again, he might never hear from his lips
whether the dreadful story was really and positively true. He felt
that Rhyming Joe would not lie to him to-night, nor deceive him, nor
deny his request to make the truth known to those who ought to know
it, if he could only find him and speak to him, and if the man could
only see how utterly miserable he was. He plunged in among the Sunday
evening saunterers, and hurried up the street, looking to the right
and to the left, before and behind him, hastening on as he could. Once
he thought he saw, just ahead, the object of his search. He ran up to
speak to him, looked into his face, and--it was some one else.

Finally he reached the head of the avenue and turned up toward the
Dunmore road. Then he came back, crossed over, and went down on the
other side of the street. Block after block he traversed, looking into
the face of every man he met, glancing into doorways and dark corners,
making short excursions into side streets; block after block, until
he reached the Hyde Park bridge. He was tired and disheartened as he
turned back and wondered what he should do next. Then it occurred to
him that he had promised to meet Mr. Sharpman that night. Perhaps the
lawyer was still waiting for him. Perhaps, if he should appeal to him,
the lawyer would help him to find Rhyming Joe, and to make the truth
known before injustice should be done.

He turned his steps in the direction of Sharpman's office, reached
it finally, went up the little walk, tried to open the door, and
found it locked. The lights were out, the lawyer had gone. Ralph was
very tired, and he sat down on the door-step to rest and to try to
think. He felt that he had made every effort to find Rhyming Joe and
had failed. To-morrow the man would be gone. Sharpman would go to
Wilkesbarre. The evidence in the Burnham case would be closed. The
jury would come into court and declare that he, Ralph, was Robert
Burnham's son--and it would be all a lie. Oh, no! he could not let
that be done. His whole moral nature cried out against it. He must
see Sharpman to-night and beg him to put a stop to so unjust a cause.
To-morrow it might be too late. He rose and started down the walk to
find the lawyer's dwelling. But he did not know in which direction to
turn. A man was passing along the street, and Ralph accosted him:--

"Please, can you tell me where Mr. Sharpman lives?" he asked.

"I don't know anything about him," replied the man gruffly, starting
on.

In a minute another man came by, and Ralph repeated his question.

"I don't know where he does live, sonny," said the man, "but I know
where he would live if I had my choice as to his dwelling-place; he'd
reside in the county jail," and this man, too, passed on.

Ralph went back and sat down on the steps again.

The sky had become covered with clouds, no stars were visible, and it
was very dark.

What was to be done now? He had failed to find Rhyming Joe, he had
failed to find Lawyer Sharpman. The early morning train would carry
both of them beyond his reach. Suppose it should? Suppose the case at
Wilkesbarre should go on to its predicted end, and the jury should
bring in their expected verdict, what then?

Why, then the law would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son; the
title, the position, the fortune would all be his; Mrs. Burnham would
take him to her home, and lavish love and care upon him; all this
unless--unless he should tell what he had heard. Ah! there was a
thought. Suppose he should not tell, suppose he should let the case go
on just as though he had not known the truth, just as though he had
stayed at home that night instead of coming to the city; who would
ever be the wiser? who would ever suspect him of knowing that the
verdict was unjust? He might yet have it all, all, if only he would
hold his tongue. His heart beat wildly with the thought, his breath
came in gasps, something in his throat seemed choking him. But that
would be wrong--he knew it would be wrong, and wicked; a sense of
shame came over him, and he cast the tempting thought aside.

No, there was but one thing for him, as an honest boy, to do, and that
was to tell what he had heard.

If he could tell it soon enough to hold the verdict back, so much the
better, if he could not, still he had no right to keep his knowledge
to himself--the story must be known. And then farewell to all his
hopes, his plans, his high ambition. No beautiful home for him now,
no loving mother nor winsome sister nor taste of any joy that he had
thought to know. It was hard to give them up, it was terrible, but it
must be done.

He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother. It seemed to him as
though it were something that had taken place very long ago. It was
like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy. He wondered
if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred. It
had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now! Could it be that
this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this
deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had
scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness? Oh,
it was dreadful! dreadful! He began to wonder why he did not cry. He
put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he
found none. Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears?

But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge
to himself came back again into his mind. He drove it out, but it
returned. It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist.
It would be so easy simply to say nothing. And who would ever know
that he was not Mrs. Burnham's son? Why, Old Simon would know, but he
would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not
dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell,
at least, not for a long time. And suppose it should be known after
a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be
supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established
by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it. They
might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that
if he could but live with Mrs. Burnham for a year she would never let
him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate.

But then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would
have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to
walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart. He
could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge,
and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked. But it was
too late to do anything to-night. He wondered how late it was. He
thought of Bachelor Billy waiting for him at home. He feared that the
good man would be worried on account of his long absence. A clock in a
church tower not far away struck ten. Ralph started to his feet, went
out into the street again, and up toward home.

But Uncle Billy! what would Uncle Billy say when he should tell him
what he had heard? Would he counsel him to hold his tongue? Ah, no!
the boy knew well the course that Uncle Billy would mark out for him.

But it would be a great blow to the man; he would grieve much
on account of the lad's misfortune; he would feel the pangs of
disappointment as deeply as did Ralph himself. Ought he not to be
spared this pain?

And then, a person holding the position of Robert Burnham's son could
give much comfort to the man who had been his dearest friend, could
place him beyond the reach of possible want, could provide well
for the old age that was rapidly approaching, could make happy and
peaceful the remnant of his days. Was it not the duty of a boy to
do it?

But, ah! he would not have the good man look into his heart and see
the lie there, not for worlds.

Ralph was passing along the same streets that he had traversed in
coming to the city two hours before; but now the doors of the houses
were closed, the curtains were drawn, the lights were out, there was
no longer any sound of sweet voices at the steps, nor any laughter,
nor any music in the air. A rising wind was stirring the foliage of
the trees into a noise like the subdued sobbing of many people; the
streets were deserted, a fine rain had begun to fall, and out on the
road, after the lad had left the suburbs, it was very dark. Indeed, it
was only by reason of long familiarity with the route that he could
find his way at all.

But the storm and darkness outside were not to be compared with the
tempest in his heart; that was terrible. He had about made up his
mind to tell Bachelor Billy everything and to follow his advice when
he chanced to think of Mrs. Burnham, and how great her pain and
disappointment would be when she should know the truth. He knew that
she believed him now to be her son; that she was ready to take him
to her home, that she counted very greatly on his coming, and was
impatient to bestow on him all the care and devotion that her mother's
heart could conceive. It would be a bitter blow to her, oh, a very
bitter blow. It would be like raising her son from the dead only to
lay him back into his grave after the first day.

What right had he to inflict such torture as this on a lady who had
been so kind to him? What right? Did not her love for him and his love
for her demand that he should keep silence? But, oh! to hear the sound
of loving words from her lips and know that he did not deserve them,
to feel her mother's kisses on his cheek and know that his heart was
dark with deep deceit. Could he endure that? could he?

As Ralph turned the corner of the village street, he saw the light
from Bachelor Billy's window shining out into the darkness. There were
no other lights to be seen. People went early to bed there; they must
rise early in the morning.

The boy knew that his Uncle Billy was waiting for him, doubtless with
much anxiety, but, now that he had reached the cottage, he stood
motionless by the door. He was trying to decide what he should do and
say on entering. To tell Uncle Billy or not to tell him, that was the
question. He had never kept anything from him before; this would be
the first secret he had not shared with him. And Uncle Billy had been
so good to him, too, so very good! Yes, he thought he had better tell
him; he would do it now, before his resolution failed. He raised his
hand to lift the latch. Again he hesitated. If he should tell him,
that would end it all. The good man would never allow him to act a
falsehood. He would have to bid farewell to all his sweet dreams of
home, and his high plans for life, and step back into the old routine
of helpless poverty and hopeless toil. He felt that he was not quite
ready to do that yet; heart, mind, body, all rebelled against it. He
would wait and hope for some way out, without the sacrifice of all
that he had longed for. His hand fell nerveless to his side. He still
stood waiting on the step in the beating rain.

But then, it was wrong to keep silent, wrong! wrong! wrong!

The word went echoing through his mind like the stern sentence of
some high court; conscience again pushed her way to the front, and
the struggle in the boy's heart went on with a fierceness that was
terrible.

Suddenly the door was opened from the inside, and Bachelor Billy
stood there, shading his eyes with his hand and peering out into the
darkness.

"Ralph," he said, "is that yo' a-stannin' there i' the rain? Coom in,
lad; coom in wi' ye! Why!" he exclaimed, as the boy entered the room,
"ye're a' drippin' wet!"

"Yes, Uncle Billy, it's a-rainin' pirty hard; I believe I--I believe I
did git wet."

The boy's voice sounded strange and hard even to himself. Bachelor
Billy looked down into his face questioningly.

"What's the matter wi' ye, Ralph? Soun's like as if ye'd been
a-cryin'. Anything gone wrong?"

"Oh, no. Only I'm tired, that's all, an'--an' wet."

"Ye look bad i' the face. Mayhap an' ye're a bit sick?"

"No, I ain't sick."

"Wull, then, off wi' the wet duddies, an' we'll be a-creepin' awa' to
bed."

As Ralph proceeded to remove his wet clothing, Bachelor Billy watched
him with increasing concern. The boy's face was white and haggard,
there were dark crescents under his eyes, his movements were heavy and
confused, he seemed hardly to know what he was about.

"Has the lawyer said aught to mak' ye unhappy, Ralph?" inquired Billy
at last.

"No, I ain't seen Mr. Sharpman. He wasn't in. He was in when I first
went there, but somebody else was there a-talkin' to 'im, an' I went
out to wait, an' w'en I got back again the office was locked, so I
didn't see 'im."

"Ye've been a lang time gone, lad?"

"Yes, I waited aroun', thinkin' maybe he'd come back, but he didn't. I
didn't git started for home" till just before it begun to rain."

"Mayhap ye got a bit frightened a-comin' up i' the dark?"

"No--well, I did git just a little scared a-comin' by old No. 10
shaft; I thought I heard a funny noise in there."

"Ye s'ould na be oot so late alone. Nex' time I'll go wi' ye mysel'!"

Ralph finished the removal of his wet clothing, and went to bed, glad
to get where Bachelor Billy could not see his face, and where he need
not talk.

"I'll wait up a bit an' finish ma pipe," said the man, and he leaned
back in his chair and began again his slow puffing.

He knew that something had gone wrong with Ralph. He feared that he
was either sick or in deep trouble. He did not like to question him
too closely, but he thought he would wait a little before going to bed
and see if there were any further developments.

Ralph could not sleep, but he tried to lie very still. A half-hour
went by, and then Bachelor Billy stole softly to the bed and looked
down into the lad's face. He was still awake.

"Have you got your pipe smoked out, Uncle Billy?" he asked.

"Yes, lad; I ha' just finished it."

"Then are you comin' to bed now?"

"I thocht to. Do ye want for anything?"

"Oh, no! I'm all right."

The man began to prepare for bed.

After a while Ralph spoke.

"Uncle Billy!"

"What is it, lad?"

"I've been thinkin', s'pose this suit should go against us, do you
b'lieve Mrs. Burnham would do anything more for me?"

"She's a gude woman, Ralph. Na doot she'd care for ye; but ye could
na hope to have her tak' ye to her hame, an they proved ye waur no'
her son."

"An' then--an' then I'd stay right along with you, wouldn't I?"

"I hope so, lad, I hope so. I want ye s'ould stay wi' me till ye find
a better place."

"Oh, I couldn't find a better place to stay, I know I couldn't, 'xcept
with my--'xcept with Mrs. Burnham."

"Wull, ye need na worry aboot the matter. Ye'll ha' naught to fear fra
the trial, I'm thinkin'. Gae to sleep noo; ye'll feel better i' the
mornin', na doot."

Ralph was silent, but only for a minute. A new thought was working
slowly into his mind.

"But, Uncle Billy," he said, "s'pose they should prove, to-morrow, 'at
Simon Craft is my own gran'father, would I have to--Oh! Uncle Billy!"

The lad started up in bed, sat there for a moment with wildly staring
eyes, and then sprang to the floor trembling with excitement and fear.

"Oh, don't!" he cried; "Uncle Billy, don't let him take me back there
to live with him! I couldn't stan' it! I couldn't! I'd die! I can't
go, Uncle Billy! I can't!"

"There, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, I'll no' let ye."

The man had Ralph in his arms trying to quiet him.

"But," persisted the boy, "he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. If
they find out I'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to
take me, I know they will!"

"But ye're no' his gran'son, Ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. Ye're
Robert Burnham's son."

"Oh, no, Uncle Billy, I ain't, I--" He stopped suddenly. The certain
result of disclosing his knowledge to his Uncle Billy flashed
warningly across his mind. If Bachelor Billy knew it, Mrs. Burnham
must know it; if Mrs. Burnham knew it, Goodlaw and the court must know
it, the verdict would be against him, Simon Craft would come to take
him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to
go. The law that would deny his claim as Robert Burnham's son would
stamp him as the grandson of Simon Craft, and place him again in his
cruel keeping.

Oh, no! he must not tell. If there were reasons for keeping silence
before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last
danger. He felt that he had rather die than go back to live with Simon
Craft.

Bachelor Billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked
a baby.

"There, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel'," he said, and his voice was
very soothing, "quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a'
coom oot richt. What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so
fearfu'?"

"N--nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again."

He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his
mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours
of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he
had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to
Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons
for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed
them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not
be broken.

Toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Old
Simon was holding him over the mouth of Burnham Shaft, threatening to
drop him down into it, while Sharpman stood by, with his hands in his
pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. He managed to cry out, and
awoke both himself and Bachelor Billy. He started up in bed, clutching
at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent
disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoarsely in his fright.

"What is it, Ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?"

"Oh, don't! don't let him throw me--Uncle Billy, is that you?"

"It's me, Ralph. Waur ye dreamin'? There, never mind; no one s'all
harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. Gae to sleep, lad, gae to
sleep."

"I thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. I must 'a' been
a-dreamin'."

"Yes, ye waur dreamin'. Gae to sleep."

But Ralph did not go to sleep again that night, and when the first
gray light of the dawning day came in at the cottage window he arose.
Bachelor Billy was still wrapped in heavy slumber, and the boy moved
about cautiously so as not to waken him.

When he was dressed he went out and sat on a bench by the door. The
storm of the night before had left the air cool and sweet, and it
refreshed him to sit there and breathe it, and watch the sun as it
came up from behind the long slanting roof of Burnham Breaker.

But he was very miserable, very miserable indeed. It was not so much
the sense of fear, of pain, of disappointment that disturbed him now,
it was the misery of a fettered conscience, the shadow of an ever
present shame.

Finally the door was opened and Bachelor Billy stepped out.

"Good mornin', Uncle Billy," said the boy, trying to speak cheerfully.

"Gude mornin' till ye, Ralph! Ye're up airly the mornin'. I mak' free
to say ye're a-feelin' better."

"Yes, I am. I didn't sleep very well, but I'm better this mornin'. I
wisht it was all over with--the trial I mean; you see it's a-makin' me
kind o' nervous an'--an' tired. I can't stan' much 'xcitement, some
way."

"Wull, ye'll no' ha' lang to wait I'm a-thinkin'. It'll be ower the
day. What aboot you're gaein' to Wilkesbarre?"

"I don't know. I guess I'll go down to Mr. Sharpman's office after a
while, an' see if he's left any word for me."

Mrs. Maloney appeared at her door.

"The top o' the mornin' to yez!" she cried, cheerily. "It's a fine
mornin' this!"

Both Bachelor Billy and Ralph responded to the woman's hearty
greeting. She continued:

"Ye'll be afther gettin' out in the air, I mind, to sharpen up the
appetites; an' a-boardin' with a widdy, too, bad 'cess to ye!"

Mrs. Maloney was inclined to be jovial, as well as kind-hearted.
"Well, I've a bite on the table for yez, an ye don't come an' ate it,
the griddle-cakes'll burn an' the coffee'll be cowld, an'--why, Ralph,
is it sick ye are? sure, ye're not lookin' right well."

"I wasn't feelin' very good las' night, Mrs. Maloney, but I'm better
this mornin'."

The sympathetic woman took the boy's hand and rubbed it gently, and,
with many inquiries and much advice, she led him to the table. He
forced himself to eat a little food and to drink something that the
good woman had prepared for him, which, she declared emphatically,
would drive off the "wakeness."

Bachelor Billy did not take his dinner with him that morning as usual.
He said he would come back at noon to learn whether anything new
had occurred in the matter of the lawsuit, and whether it would be
necessary for Ralph to go to Wilkesbarre.

He was really much concerned about the boy. Ralph's conduct since the
evening before had been a mystery to him. He knew that something was
troubling the lad greatly; but, whatever it was, he had faith that
Ralph would meet it manfully, the more manfully, perhaps, without his
help. So he went away with cheering predictions concerning the suit,
and with kindly admonition to the boy to remain as quiet as possible
and try to sleep.

But Ralph could not sleep, nor could he rest. He was laboring under
too much excitement still to do either. He walked nervously about the
cottage for a while, then he started down toward the city. He went
first to Sharpman's office, and the clerk told him that Mr. Sharpman
had left word that Ralph need not go to Wilkesbarre that day. Then he
went on to the heart of the city. He was trying to divert himself,
trying to drown his thought, as people try who are suffering from the
reproaches of conscience.

He walked down to the railroad station. He wondered if Rhyming Joe had
gone. He supposed he had. He did not care to see him now, at any rate.

He sat on a bench in the waiting-room for a few minutes to rest,
then he went out into the street again. But he was very wretched. It
seemed to him as though all persons whom he met looked down on him
disdainfully, as if they knew of his proposed deceit, and despised him
for it. A lady coming toward him crossed to the other side of the walk
before she reached him. He wondered if she saw disgrace in his face
and was trying to avoid him.

After that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less
frequented route, toward home. The day was very bright and warm, but
the brightness had a cold glare in Ralph's eyes, and he actually
shivered as he walked on in the shade of the trees. He crossed to the
sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and
up the hill.

Widow Maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask
after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on
into his own room. He closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw
himself down upon the bed. He was very wretched. Oh, very wretched,
indeed.

He had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at Wilkesbarre go
on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace;
it had only made him more unhappy than he was before. But why should
it do this? Was he not doing what was best? Would it not be better
for Uncle Billy, for Mrs. Burnham, for himself? Must he, for the sake
of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless
clutch of Simon Craft?

Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on
with renewed earnestness. He gave to his conscience, one by one, the
reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham's son; good
reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him;
but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all
of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a
grievous wrong.

But whom would it wrong? Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it
could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to
have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not
Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness.
And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always
that it was wrong.

But whom would it wrong? himself? Ah! there was a thought--would it be
wronging himself?

Well, would it not? Had it not already made a coward of him? Was it
not degrading him in his own eyes? Was it not trying to stifle the
voice of conscience in his breast? Would it not make of him a living,
walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? Had he a right to
place a burden so appalling on himself? Would it not be better to face
the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? Would it not be better even
to die than to live a life like that?

He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and
swelling nostrils. A fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in
his breast. His better nature rose to the help of the angel with the
flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought
the dragons in their path. Then hope came back, and courage grew, and
resolution found new footing. He stood there as he stood that day
on the carriage that bore Robert Burnham to his death, the light of
heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face. He
could not help but conquer. He drove the spirit of temptation from his
breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right.
There was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet
every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without
flinching one hair's breadth from the stern line of duty.

But now that his decision was made, he must act, and that promptly.
What was the first thing to be done? Why, the first thing always was
to confide in Uncle Billy, and to ask for his advice.

He seized his hat and started up the village street and across the
hill to Burnham Breaker There was no lagging now, no indecision in his
step, no doubt within his mind.

He was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or
all things, that justice might be done and truth become established.

The sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on
the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he
never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights
of Burnham Breaker threw their shadows on his head.




CHAPTER XV.

AN EVENTFUL JOURNEY.


The shaft-tower of Burnham Breaker reached up so high from the surface
of the earth that it seemed, sometimes, as if the low-hanging clouds
were only a foot or two above its head. In the winter time the wind
swept wildly against it, the flying snow drifted in through the wide
cracks and broken windows, and the men who worked there suffered from
the piercing cold. But when summer came, and the cool breeze floated
across through the open places at the head, and one could look down
always on the green fields far below, and the blossoming gardens,
and the gray-roofed city, and the shining waters of the Lackawanna,
winding southward, and the wooded hills rising like green waves to
touch the far blue line of mountain peaks, ah, then it was a pleasant
place to work in. So Bachelor Billy thought, these warm spring days,
as he pushed the dripping cars from the carriage, and dumped each load
of coal into the slide, to be carried down between the iron-teethed
rollers, to be crushed and divided and screened and re-screened, till
it should pass beneath the sharp eyes and nimble fingers of the boys
who cleansed it from its slate and stone.

Billy often thought, as he dumped a carload into the slide, and saw a
huge lump of coal that glistened brightly, or glowed with iridescent
tints, or was veined with fossil-marked or twisted slate, that
perhaps, down below in the screen-room, Ralph's eyes would see the
brightness of the broken lump, or Ralph's fingers pick the curious
bits of slate from out the moving mass. And as he fastened up the
swing-board and pushed the empty car to the carriage, he imagined how
the boy's face would light up with pleasure, or his brown eyes gleam
with wonder and delight in looking on these strange specimens of
nature's handiwork.

But to-day Ralph was not there. In all probability he would never
be there again to work. Another boy was sitting on his bench in the
screen-room, another boy was watching rainbow coal and fern-marked
slate. This thought in Bachelor Billy's mind was a sad one. He pushed
the empty car on the carriage, and sat down on a bench by the window
to consider the subject of Ralph's absence.

Something had gone wrong at the foot of the shaft. There were no cars
ready for hoisting, and Billy and his co-laborer, Andy Gilgallon, were
able to rest for many minutes from their toil.

As they sat looking down upon the green landscape below them, Bachelor
Billy's attention was attracted to a boy who was hurrying along the
turnpike road a quarter of a mile away. He came to the foot of the
hill and turned up the path to the breaker, looking up to the men in
the shaft-tower as he hastened on, and waving his hand to them.

"I believe it's Ralph," said Billy, "it surely is. An ye'll mind both
carriages for a bit when they start up, Andy, I'll go t' the lad," and
he hurried across the tracks and down the dark and devious way that
led to the surface of the earth.

At the door of the pump-room he met Ralph. "Uncle Billy!" shouted the
boy, "I want to see you; I've got sumpthin' to tell you."

Two or three men were standing by, watching the pair curiously, and
Ralph continued: "Come up to the tree where they ain't so much noise;
'twon't take long."

He led the way across the level space, up the bank, and into the
shadow of the tree beneath which the breaker boys had gathered a year
before to pass resolutions of sympathy for Robert Burnham's widow;

They were no sooner seated on the rude bench than Ralph began:--

"I ought to 'a' told you before, I done very wrong not to tell you,
but I couldn't raise the courage to do it till this mornin'. Here's
what I want you to know."

Then Ralph told, with full detail, of his visit to Sharpman's office
on Sunday evening, of what he had heard there, of his subsequent
journey through the streets of the city, of his night of agony, of his
morning of shame, of his final victory over himself.

Bachelor Billy listened with intense interest, and when he had heard
the boy's story to the end he dashed the tears from his eyes and said:
"Gie's your han' Ralph; gie's your twa han's! Ye're a braw lad. Son or
no son o' Robert Burnham, ye're fit to stan' ony day in his shoes!"

He was looking down with strong admiration into the boy's pale face,
holding the small hands affectionately in both of his.

"I come just as quick as I could," continued the boy, "after I got
over thinkin' I'd keep still about it, just as quick as I could, to
tell you an' ask you what to do. I'll do anything 'at you tell me it's
right to do, Uncle Billy, anything. If you'll only say I must do it,
I will. But it's awful hard to do it all alone, to let 'em know who I
am, to give up everything so, an' not to have any mother any more, nor
no sister, nor no home, nor no learnin', nor nothing; not anything at
all, never, any more; it's terrible! Oh, Uncle Billy, it's terrible!"

Then, for the first time since the dreadful words of Rhyming Joe fell
on his ears in the darkness of Sharpman's office, Ralph gave way to
tears. He wept till his whole frame shook with the deep force of his
sobs.

Bachelor Billy put his arm around the boy and drew him to his side. He
smoothed back the tangled hair from the child's hot forehead and spoke
rude words of comfort into his ears, and after a time Ralph grew
quiet.

"Do you think, Uncle Billy," asked Ralph, "'at Rhymin' Joe was
a-tellin' the truth? He used to lie, I know he did, I've heard 'im
lie myself."

"It looks verra like, Ralph, as though he might 'a' been a-tellin' o'
the truth; he must 'a' been knowin' to it all, or he could na tell it
so plain."

"Oh! he was; he knew all about it. I remember him about the first
thing. He was there most all the time. But I didn't know but he might
just 'a' been lyin' to get that money."

"It's no' unlikely. But atween the twa, I'd sooner think it was the
auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. He has more to make out o' it, do
ye see?"

"Well, there's the evidence in court."

"True, but Lawyer Sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o'
us. An he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna
gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. I'm doubtfu'
for ye, Ralph, I'm verra doubtfu'."

Ralph had believed Rhyming Joe's story from the beginning, but he felt
that this belief must be confirmed by Uncle Billy in order to put it
beyond question. Now he was satisfied. It only remained to act.

"It's all true," he said; "I know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to
be done. What shall I do, Uncle Billy?"

The troubled look deepened on the man's face.

"Whether it's fause or true," he replied, "ye s'ould na keep it to
yoursel'. She ought to know. It's only fair to go an' tell the tale to
her an' let her do what she thenks bes'."

"Must I tell Mrs. Burnham? Must I go an' tell her 'at I ain't her
son, an' 'at I can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy
together the way we talked? Oh, Uncle Billy, I can't do that, I
can't!"

He looked up beseechingly into the man's face. Something that he saw
there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with
fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from
his eyes.

"Yes, I can do it too!" he exclaimed. "I can do anything 'at's right,
an' that's right. I won't wait; I'll go now."

"Don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! If the lady should be gone to
court ye mus' gae there too. If ye canna find her, ye mus' find her
lawyer. One or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes;
afterwards it might be too late."

"Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it just like that."

"Mos' like ye'll have to go to Wilkesbarre. An ye do I'll go mysel'.
But dinna wait for me. I'll coom when I can get awa'. Ye s'ould go on
the first train that leaves."

"Yes, I unnerstan'. I'll go now."

"Wait a bit! Keep up your courage, Ralph. Ye've done a braw thing, an'
ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an'
ye'll need a stout hert. Ralph," he had taken both the boy's hands
into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and
bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--"Ralph,
I fear I'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so.
An' it's gude for ye, I'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. I'd make ye
weak, an' ye need to be strang. I canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken
the right an' ye'll do it. Good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till I
s'all go to ye; good-by!"

He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face
toward the city; and when Ralph had disappeared below the brow of the
hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head
wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps,
and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task.

There was no shrinking on Ralph's part now. He was on fire with the
determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. He did
not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing
along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached
the door of Mrs. Burnham's house.

A servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him
pleasant greeting. She said that Mrs. Burnham had gone to Wilkesbarre,
that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come
back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her.

Ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim.

"Thank you," he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps
with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart.

He turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door
into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light
from the stained glass window cleaving them across, and then his eyes
were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. The gates of his
Eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them
again.

But this was no time for sorrow and regret.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward
the heart of the city.

At the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave
for Wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock.

It lacked half an hour of that time now. There was nothing to do but
to wait. He began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue
on reaching Wilkesbarre. He thought he would inquire the way to Mr.
Goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to
him. Perhaps Mrs. Burnham would be there too, that would be better
yet, more painful but better. Then he should follow their advice as
to the course to be pursued. It was more than likely that they would
want him to testify as a witness. That would be strange, too, that
he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a
beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. But he was
ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and
best, anything that would meet the approval of his Uncle Billy and of
his own conscience.

When the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited
impatiently for them to start. For some reason they were late in
getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough
to make up for lost time.

In the seats behind Ralph was a merry party of young girls. Their
incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long
distance. At any former time he would have listened to them with great
pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his
brain was busied with weightier matters.

He looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the
sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms.
He saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon
them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. He saw the giant
breakers looming up, black and massive, in the foreground of almost
every scene. And yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy
dream. The strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay
before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his
hopes and fancies.

At Pittston Junction there was another long delay. Ralph grew very
nervous and impatient.

If the train could have reached Wilkesbarre on time he would have had
only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. Now he could
hope for only a half-hour at the best. And if anything should happen
to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he
should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after
the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had
declared him to be Robert Burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen!
His face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in
gasps. If such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his
will and effort, what then? It was only for a moment that he gave way
to this insidious and undermining thought. Then he fought it back,
crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the
front.

At last the train came, the impatient passengers entered it, and they
were once more on their way.

It was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment Ralph had a
faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the
Susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the
valley of Wyoming. Off the nearer shore of a green-walled island in
the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a
picture of perfect comfort and content.

Then the train swept around a curve, away from the shore, and back
among the low hills to the east. Suddenly there was a bumping together
of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a
grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train,
and a slight shock at stopping.

The party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and
their faces blanched with fear.

The men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the
cause of the alarm. Ralph went also. The train had narrowly escaped
plunging into a mass of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a
collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered
coal.

To make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep
and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and
splintered wreckage.

What was to be done? the passengers asked. The conductor replied
that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away,
to telegraph for a special train from Wilkesbarre, and that the
passengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. And
how long would they be obliged to wait here?

"Well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer."

"That means two hours," said an impatient traveller, bitterly.

Ralph heard it all. An hour would make him very late, two hours would
be fatal to his mission. He went up to the conductor and asked,--

"How long'd it take to walk to Wilkesbarre?"

"That depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. Some men might do it in
half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't." And the man looked
down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him.

Ralph turned away in deep thought. If he could walk it in
three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do
something at least. Should he try?

But this accident, this delay, might it not be providential? Must he
always be striving against fate? against every circumstance that would
tend to relieve him? against every obstacle thrown into his path to
prevent him from bringing calamity on his own head? Must he?--but the
query went no further. The angel with the flaming sword came back to
guard the gates of thought, and conscience still was king. He would do
all that lay in his human power, with every moment and every muscle
that he had, to fulfil the stern command of duty, and then if he
should fail, it would be with no shame in his heart, no blot upon his
soul.

Already he was making his way through the thick underbrush along the
steep hill-side above the wreck, stumbling, falling, bruising his
hands and knees, and finally leaping down into the railroad track on
the other side of the piled-up cars. From there he ran along smoothly
on the ties, turning out once for a train of coal cars to pass him,
but stopping for nothing. A man at work in a field by the track asked
him what the matter was up the line; the boy answered him in as few
words as possible, walking while he talked, and then ran on again.
After he had gone a mile or more he came to a wagon-road crossing, and
wondered if, by following it, he would not sooner reach his journey's
end. He could see, in the distance, the smoke arising from a hundred
chimneys where the city lay, and the road looked as though it would
take him more directly there. He did not stop long to consider. He
plunged ahead down a little hill, and then along on a foot-path by the
side of the wagon-track. The day had grown to be very warm, and Ralph
removed his jacket and carried it on his arm or across his shoulder.
He became thirsty after a while, but he dared not stop at the houses
along the way to ask for water; it would take too much time. He met
many wagons coming toward him, but there seemed to be few going in to
the city. He had hoped to get a ride. He had overtaken a farmer with
a wagon-load of produce going to the town and had passed him. Two or
three fast teams whirled by, leaving a cloud of dust to envelop him.
Then a man, riding in a buggy, drove slowly down the road. Ralph
shouted at him as he passed:--

"Please, sir, may I have a ride? I'm in a desp'ate hurry!"

But the man looked back at him contemptuously. "I don't run a stage
for the benefit of tramps," he said, and drove on.

Ralph was discouraged and did not dare to ask any one else for a ride,
though there seemed to be several opportunities to get one.

But he came to a place, at last, where a little creek crossed the
road, a cool spring run, and he knelt down by it and quenched his
thirst, and considered that if he had been in a wagon he would have
missed the drink. The road was somewhat disappointing to him, too. It
seemed to turn away, after a little distance, from the direct line to
the city, and to bear to the west, toward the river. He feared that
he had made a mistake in leaving the railroad, but he only walked the
faster. Now and then he would break into a run and keep running until
his breath gave out, then he would drop back into a walk.

His feet began to hurt him. One shoe rubbed his heel until the pain
became so intense that he could not bear it, and he sat down by the
roadside and removed his shoes and stockings, and then ran on in his
bare feet. The sunlight grew hotter; no air was stirring; the dust
hung above the road in clouds. Deep thirst came back upon the boy;
his limbs grew weak and tired; his bared feet were bruised upon the
stones.

But he scarcely thought of these things; his only anxiety was that the
moments were passing, that the road was long, that unless he reached
his journey's end in time injustice would be done and wrong prevail.

So he pressed on; abating not one jot of his swiftness, falling
not one hair's breadth from his height of resolution, on and on,
foot-sore, thirsty, in deep distress; but with a heart unyielding
as the flint, with a purpose strong as steel, with a heroism more
magnificent than that which meets the points of glittering bayonets
or the mouths of belching cannon.




CHAPTER XVI.

A BLOCK IN THE WHEEL.


At half-past one o'clock people began to loiter into the court-house
at Wilkesbarre; at two the court-room was full. They were there, the
most of them, to hear the close of the now celebrated Burnham case.

The judge came in from a side door and took his seat on the bench.
Beneath him the prothonotary was busy writing in a big book. Down in
the bar the attorneys sat chatting familiarly and pleasantly with one
another. Sharpman was there, and Craft was at his elbow.

Goodlaw was there, and Mrs. Burnham sat in her accustomed place. The
crier opened court in a voice that could be heard to the farthest end
of the room, though few of the listeners understood what his "Oyez!
oyez! oyez!" was all about.

Some opinions of the court were read and handed down by the judge. The
prothonotary called the jury list for the week. Two or three jurors
presented applications for discharge which were patiently considered
and acted on by the court.

The sheriff arose and acknowledged a bunch of deeds, the title-pages
of which had been read aloud by the judge.

An attorney stepped up to the railing and presented a petition to the
court; another attorney arose and objected to it, and quite a little
discussion ensued over the matter. It finally ended by a rule being
granted to show cause why the petition should not be allowed. Then
there were several motions made by as many lawyers. All this took much
time; a good half-hour at least, perhaps longer.

Finally there was a lull. The judge was busily engaged in writing. The
attorneys seemed to have exhausted their topics for conversation and
to be waiting for new ones.

The jury in the Burnham case sat listlessly in their chairs, glad that
their work in the matter at issue was nearly done, yet regretful that
a case had not been made out which might have called for the exercise
of that large intelligence, that critical acumen, that capacity
for close reasoning, of which the members of the average jury
feel themselves to be severally and collectively possessed. As it
was, there would be little for them to do. The case was extremely
one-sided, "like the handle on a jug," as one of them sententiously
and somewhat scornfully remarked.

The judge looked up from his writing. "Well, gentlemen," he said, "are
you ready to proceed in the case of 'Craft against Burnham'?"

"We are ready on the part of the plaintiff," replied Sharpman.

Goodlaw arose. "If it please the court," he said, "we are in the same
position to-day that we were in on Saturday night at the adjournment.
This matter has been, with us, one of investigation rather than of
defence.

"Though we hesitate to accept a statement of fact from a man of Simon
Craft's self-confessed character, yet the corroborative evidence seems
to warrant a belief in the general truth of his story.

"We do not wish to offer any further contradictory evidence than that
already elicited from the plaintiff's witnesses. I may say, however,
that this decision on our part is due not so much to my own sense of
the legal barrenness of our case as to my client's deep conviction
that the boy Ralph is her son, and to her great desire that justice
shall be done to him."

"In that case," said the judge, "I presume you will have nothing
further to offer on the part of the plaintiff, Mr. Sharpman?"

"Nothing," replied that gentleman, with an involuntary, smile of
satisfaction on his lips.

"Then," said Goodlaw, who was still standing, "I suppose the evidence
may be declared closed. I know of no--" He stopped and turned to see
what the noise and confusion back by the entrance was about. The eyes
of every one else in the room were turned in that direction also. A
tipstaff was trying to detain Ralph at the door; he had not recognized
him. But the boy broke away from him and hurried down the central
aisle to the railing of the bar. In the struggle with the officer he
had lost his hat, and his hair was tumbled over his forehead. His face
was grimy and streaked with perspiration; his clothes were torn and
dusty, and in his hand he still carried his shoes and stockings.

"Mr. Goodlaw!" he exclaimed in a loud whisper as he hastened across
the bar, "Mr. Goodlaw, wait a minute! I ain't Robert Burnham's son! I
didn't know it till yestaday; but I ain't--I ain't his son!"

The boy dropped, panting, into a chair. Goodlaw looked down on him
in astonishment. Old Simon clutched his cane and leaned forward with
his eyes flashing fire. Mrs. Burnham, her face pale with surprise and
compassion, began to smooth back the hair from the lad's wet forehead.
The people back in the court-room had risen to their feet, to look
down into the bar, and the constables were trying to restore order.

It all took place in a minute.

Then Ralph began to talk again:--

"Rhymin' Joe said so; he said I was Simon Craft's grandson; he told--"

Sharpman interrupted him. "Come with me, Ralph," he said, "I want to
speak with you a minute." He reached out his hand, as if to lead him
away; but Goodlaw stepped between them, saying, sternly:--

"He shall not go! The boy shall tell his story unhampered; you shall
not crowd it back down his throat in private!"

"I say the boy shall go," replied Sharpman, angrily. "He is my client,
and I have a right to consult with him."

This was true. For a moment Goodlaw was at his wit's end. Then, a
bright idea came to him.

"Ralph," he said, "take the witness-stand."

Sharpman saw that he was foiled.

He turned to the court, white with passion.

"I protest," he exclaimed, "against this proceeding! It is contrary
to both law and courtesy. I demand the privilege of consulting with
my client!"

"Counsel has a right to call the boy as a witness," said the judge,
dispassionately, "and to put him on the stand at once. Let him be
sworn."

Ralph pushed his way up to the witness-stand, and the officer
administered the oath. He was a sorry-looking witness indeed.

At any other time or in any other place, his appearance would have
been ludicrous. But now no one laughed. The people in the court-room
began to whisper, "Hush!" fearing lest the noise of moving bodies
might cause them to lose the boy's words.

To Goodlaw it was all a mystery. He did not know how to begin the
examination. He started at a venture.

"Are you Robert Burnham's son?"

"No, sir," replied Ralph, firmly. "I ain't."

There was a buzz of excitement in the room. Old Simon sat staring
at the boy incredulously. His anger had changed for the moment into
wonder. He could not understand the cause of Ralph's action. Sharpman
had not told him of the interview with Rhyming Joe--he had not thought
it advisable.

"Who are you, then?" inquired Goodlaw.

"I'm Simon Craft's grandson." The excitement in the room ran higher.
Craft raised himself on his cane to lean toward Sharpman. "He lies!"
whispered the old man, hoarsely; "the boy lies!"

Sharpman paid no attention to him.

"When did you first learn that you are Mr. Craft's grandson?"
continued the counsel for the defence.

"Last night," responded Ralph.

"Where?"

"At Mr. Sharpman's office."

The blood rushed suddenly into Sharpman's face. He understood it all
now; Ralph had overheard.

"Who told you?" asked Goodlaw.

"No one told me, I heard Rhymin' Joe--"

Sharpman interrupted him.

"I don't know," he said, "if the court please, what this boy is trying
to tell nor what wild idea has found lodgement in his brain; but I
certainly object to the introduction of such hearsay evidence as
counsel seems trying to bring out. Let us at least know whether the
responsible plaintiff in this case was present or was a party to this
alleged conversation."

"Was Mr. Craft present?" asked Goodlaw of the witness.

"No, sir; I guess not, I didn't hear 'im, any way."

"Did you see him?"

"No, sir; I didn't see 'im. I didn't see either of 'em."

"Where were you?"

"In the room nex' to the street."

"Where did this conversation take place?"

"In the back room."

"Was the door open?"

"Just a little."

"Who were in the back room?"

"Mr. Sharpman an' Rhymin' Joe."

"Who is Rhyming Joe?"

"He's a man I used to know in Philadelphy."

"When you lived with Craft?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was his business?"

"I don't know as anything. He used to bring things to the house
sometimes, watches an' things."

"How long have you known Rhyming Joe?"

"Ever since I can remember."

"Was he at Craft's house frequently?"

"Yes, sir; most all the time."

An idea of the true situation of affairs was dawning upon Goodlaw's
mind. That Ralph had overheard Rhyming Joe say to Sharpman that the
boy was Simon Craft's grandson was evident. But how to get that fact
before the jury in the face of the rules of evidence--that was the
question. It seemed to him that there should be some way to do it, and
he kept on with the examination in order to gain time for thought and
to lead up to the point.

"Did Mr. Sharpman know that you were in his office when this
conversation took place?"

"No, sir; I guess not."

"Did Rhyming Joe know you were there?"

"No, sir; I don't believe he did."

"From the conversation overheard by you, have you reason to believe
that Rhyming Joe is acquainted with the facts relating to your
parentage?"

"Yes, sir; he must know."

"And, from hearing that conversation, did you become convinced that
you are Simon Craft's grandson and not Robert Burnham's son?"

"Yes, sir, I did. Rhymin' Joe said so, an' he knows."

"Did you see Rhyming Joe last night?"

"No, sir. Only as he passed by me in the dark."

"Have you seen him to-day?"

"No, sir; he promised to go away this mornin'."

"To whom did he make that promise?"

Sharpman was on his feet in an instant, calling on Ralph to stop, and
appealing to the court to have the counsel and witness restricted to
a line of evidence that was legal and proper. He saw open before him
the pit of bribery, and this fearless boy was pushing him dangerously
close to the brink of it.

The judge admonished the defendant's attorney to hold the witness
within proper bounds and to proceed with the examination.

In the meantime, Goodlaw had been thinking. He felt that it was of the
highest importance that this occurrence in Sharpman's office should be
made known to the court and the jury, and that without delay. There
was but one theory, however, on which he could hope to introduce
evidence of all that had taken place there, and he feared that that
was not a sound one. But he determined to put on a bold face and make
the effort.

"Ralph," he said, calmly, "you may go on now and give the entire
conversation as you heard it last night between Mr. Sharpman and
Rhyming Joe."

The very boldness of the question brought a smile to Sharpman's face
as he arose and objected to the legality of the evidence asked for.

"We contend," said Goodlaw, in support of his offer, "that neither the
trustee-plaintiff nor his attorney are persons whom the law recognizes
as having any vital interest in this suit. The witness on the stand is
the real plaintiff here, his are the interests that are at stake, and
if he chooses to give evidence adverse to those interests, evidence
relevant to the matter at issue, although it may be hearsay evidence,
he has a perfect right to do so. His privilege as a witness is as high
as that of any other plaintiff."

But Sharpman was on the alert. He arose to reply.

"Counsel forgets," he said, "or else is ignorant of the fact, that
the very object of the appointment of a guardian is because the law
considers that a minor is incapable of acting for himself. He has no
discretionary power in connection with his estate. He has no more
right to go on the witness-stand and give voluntary hearsay evidence
which shall be adverse to his own interests than he has to give away
any part of his estate which may be under the control of his trustee.
A guardian who will allow him to do either of these things without
objection will be liable for damages at the hands of his ward when
that ward shall have reached his majority. We insist on the rejection
of the offer."

The judge sat for a minute in silence, as if weighing the matter
carefully. Finally he said:--

"We do not think the testimony is competent, Mr. Goodlaw. Although the
point is a new one to us, we are inclined to look upon the law of the
case as Mr. Sharpman looks on it. We shall be obliged to refuse your
offer. We will seal you a bill of exceptions."

Goodlaw had hardly dared to expect anything else. There was nothing
for him to do but to acquiesce in the ruling of the court.

Ralph turned to face him with a question on his lips.

"Mr. Goodlaw," he said, "ain't they goin' to let me tell what I heard
Rhymin' Joe say?"

"I am afraid not, Ralph; the court has ruled that conversation out."

"But they won't never know the right of it unless I tell that. I've
got to tell it; that's what I come here for."

The judge turned to the witness and spoke to him, not unkindly:--

"Ralph, suppose you refrain from interrogating your counsel, and let
him ask questions of you; that is the way we do here."

"Yes, sir, I will," said the boy, innocently, "only it seems too bad
'at I can't tell what Rhymin' Joe said."

The lawyers in the bar were smiling, Sharpman had recovered his
apparent good-nature, and Goodlaw began again to interrogate the
witness.

"Are you aware, Ralph," he asked, "that your testimony here to-day
may have the effect of excluding you from all rights in the estate
of Robert Burnham?"

"Yes, sir, I know it."

"And do you know that you are probably denying yourself the right to
bear one of the most honored names, and to live in one of the most
beautiful homes in this community?"

"Yes, sir, I know it all. I wouldn't mind all that so much though if
it wasn't for my mother. I've got to give her up now, that's the worst
of it; I don't know how I'm goin' to stan' that."

Mrs. Burnham, sitting by her counsel, bent her head above the table
and wept silently.

"Was your decision to disclose your knowledge reached with a fair
understanding of the probable result of such a disclosure?"

"Yes, sir, it was. I knew what the end of it'd be, an' I had a pirty
hard time to bring myself to it, but I done it, an' I'm glad now 'at
I did."

"Did you reach this decision alone or did some one help you to it?"

"Well, I'll tell you how that was. All't I decided in the first place
was to tell Uncle Billy,--he's the man't I live with. So I told him,
an' he said I ought to tell Mrs. Burnham right away. But she wasn't
home when I got to her house, so I started right down here; an' they
was an accident up on the road, an' the train couldn't go no further,
an' so I walked in--I was afraid I wouldn't get here in time 'less
I did."

"Your long walk accounts for your dusty and shoeless condition, I
suppose?"

"Yes, sir; it was pirty dusty an' hot, an' I had to walk a good ways,
an' my shoes hurt me so't I had to take 'em off, an' I didn't have
time to put 'em on again after I got here. Besides," continued the
boy, looking down apologetically at his bruised and dusty feet, "I
hurt my feet a-knockin' 'em against the stones when I was a-runnin',
an' they've got swelled up so 'at I don't believe I could git my shoes
on now, any way."

Many people in the room besides Mrs. Burnham had tears in their eyes
at the conclusion of this simple statement.

Then Ralph grew white about the lips and looked around him uneasily.
The judge saw that the lad was faint, and ordered a tipstaff to bring
him a glass of water. Ralph drank the water and it refreshed him.

"You may cross-examine the witness," said Goodlaw to the plaintiff's
attorney.

Sharpman hardly knew how to begin. But he felt that he must make an
effort to break in some way the force of Ralph's testimony. He knew
that from a strictly legal point of view, the evidence was of little
value, but he feared that the boy's apparent honesty, coupled with his
dramatic entrance, would create an impression on the minds of the jury
which might carry them to a disastrous verdict. He leaned back in his
chair with an assumed calmness, placed the tips of his fingers against
each other, and cast his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Ralph," he said, "you considered up to yesterday that Mr. Craft and I
were acting in your interest in this case, did you not?"

"Yes, sir; I thought so."

"And you have consulted with us and followed our advice until
yesterday, have you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And last night you came to the conclusion that we were deceiving
you?"

"Yes, sir; I did."

"Have you any reason for this opinion aside from the conversation you
allege that you heard?"

"I don't know as I have."

"At what hour did you reach my office last evening?"

"I don't know, I guess it must 'a' been after eight o'clock."

"Was it dark?"

"It was jest dark."

"Was there a light in the office when you came in?"

"They was in the back room where you an' Rhymin' Joe were."

"Did you think that I knew when you came into the office?"

"I don't believe you did."

"Why did you not make your presence known?"

"Well, I--I--"

"Come, out with it! If you had any reason for playing the spy, let's
hear what it was."

"I didn't play the spy. I didn't think o' bein' mean that way, but
when I heard Rhymin' Joe tell you 'at I wasn't Robert Burnham's son,
I was so s'prised, an' scart-like 'at I couldn't speak."

This was a little more than Sharpman wanted, but he kept on:--

"How long were you under the control of this spirit of muteness?"

"Sir?"

"How long was it before the power to speak returned to you?"

"Oh! not till Rhymin' Joe went out, I guess. I felt so bad I didn't
want to speak to anybody."

"Did you see this person whom you call Rhyming Joe?"

"Only in the dark."

"Not so as to recognize him by sight?"

"No, sir."

"How did you know it was he?"

"By the way he talked."

"How long is it since you have been accustomed to hearing him talk?"

"About three years."

"Did you see me last night?"

"I caught a glimpse of you jest once."

"When?"

"When you went across the room an' gave Rhymin' Joe the money."

Sharpman flushed angrily. He felt that he was treading on dangerous
ground in this line of examination. He went on more cautiously.

"At what time did you leave my office last night?"

"Right after Rhymin' Joe did. I went out to find him."

"Then you went away without letting me know of your presence there,
did you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you find this Rhyming Joe?"

"No, sir, I couldn't find 'im."

"Now, Ralph, when you left me at the Scranton station on Saturday
night, did you go straight home?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see any one to talk with except Bachelor Billy that night
after you left me?"

"No, sir."

"Where did you go on Sunday morning?"

"Uncle Billy an' me went down to the chapel to meetin'."

"From there where did you go?"

"Back home."

"And had your dinner?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do after that?"

"Me an' Uncle Billy went up to the breaker."

"What breaker?"

"Burnham Breaker."

"Why did you go there?"

"Jest for a walk, an' to see how it looked."

"How long did you stay there?"

"Oh, we hadn't been there more'n fifteen or twenty minutes 'fore Mrs.
Burnham's man came for me an' took me to her house."

Sharpman straightened up in his chair. His drag-net had brought up
something at last. It might be of value to him and it might not be.

"Ah!" he said, "so you spent a portion of yesterday afternoon at Mrs.
Burnham's house, did you?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"How long did you stay there?"

"Oh! I shouldn't wonder if it was two or three hours."

"Did you see Mrs. Burnham alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have a long talk together?"

"Yes, sir, a very nice long talk."

Sharpman thought that if he could only lead the jury, by inference,
to the presumption that what had taken place to-day was understood
between Ralph and Mrs. Burnham yesterday it would be a strong point,
but he knew that he must go cautiously.

"She was very kind to you, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir; she was lovely. I never had so good a time before in all my
life."

"You took dinner with her, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have a good dinner?"

"It was splendid."

"Did you eat a good deal?"

"Yes, sir, I think I eat a great deal."

"Had a good many things that were new to you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir, quite a good many."

"Did you think you would like to go there to live?"

"Oh, yes! I did. It's beautiful there, it's very beautiful. You don't
know how lovely it is till you get there. I couldn't help bein' happy
in a home like that, an' they couldn't be no nicer mother'n Mrs.
Burnham is, nor no pirtier little sister. An' everybody was jest as
good to me there! Why, you don't know what a--"

The glow suddenly left the boy's face, and the rapture fled from his
eyes. In the enthusiasm of his description he had forgotten, for the
moment, that it was not all to be his, and when the memory of his loss
came back to him, it was like a plunge into outer darkness. He stopped
so unexpectedly, and in such apparent mental distress that people
stared at him in astonishment, wondering what had happened.

After a moment of silence he spoke again: "But it ain't mine any
longer; I can't have any of it now; I've got no right to go there at
all any more." The sadness in his broken voice was pitiful. Those who
were looking on him saw his under lip tremble and his eyes fill with
tears. But it was only for a moment. Then he drew himself up until
he sat rigidly in his chair, his little hands were tightly clenched,
his lips were set in desperate firmness, every muscle of his face
grew tense and hard with sudden resolution. It was a magnificently
successful effort of the will to hold back almost overpowering
emotion, and to keep both mind and body strong and steady for any
ordeal through which he might have yet to pass.

It came upon those who saw it like an electric flash, and in another
moment the crowded room was ringing with applause.




CHAPTER XVII.

GENTLEMEN OF THE JURY.


Sharpman had not seen Ralph's expression and did not know what the
noise was all about. He looked around at the audience uneasily,
whispered to Craft for a moment, and then announced that he was done
with the witness. He was really afraid to carry the examination
further; there were too many pit-falls along the way.

Goodlaw, too, was wise enough to ask no additional questions. He
did not care to lay grounds for the possible reversal of a judgment
in favor of the defendant, by introducing questionable evidence.
But he felt that the case, in its present aspect, needed farther
investigation, and he moved for a continuance of the cause for two
days. He desired, he said, to find the person known as Rhyming Joe,
and to produce such other evidence as this new and startling turn of
affairs might make necessary.

Craft whispered to Sharpman that the request should be agreed to,
saying that he could bring plenty of witnesses to prove that Rhyming
Joe was a worthless adventurer, notorious for his habits of lying;
and stoutly asserting that the boy was positively Ralph Burnham. But
Sharpman's great fear was that if Rhyming Joe should be brought back,
the story of the bribery could no longer be hushed; and he therefore
opposed the application for a continuance with all his energy.

The court ruled that the reasons presented were not sufficient to
warrant the holding of a jury at this stage of the case for so long a
time, but intimated that in the event of a verdict for the plaintiff a
motion for a new trial might be favorably considered by the court.

"Then we have nothing further to offer," said Goodlaw.

Sharpman resumed his seat with an air of satisfaction, and sat for
full five minutes, with his face in his hand, in deep thought.

"I think," he said, finally, looking up, "that we shall present
nothing in rebuttal. The case, as it now stands, doesn't seem to call
for it." He had been considering whether it would be safe and wise for
him to go on the witness-stand and deny any portion of Ralph's story.
He had reached the conclusion that it would not. The risk was too
great.

"Very well," said the judge, taking up his pen, "then the evidence is
closed. Mr. Goodlaw, are you ready to go to the jury?"

Goodlaw, who had been, during this time, holding a whispered
conversation with Ralph, arose, bowed to the court, and turned to
face the jurors. He began his speech by saying that, until the recent
testimony given by the boy Ralph had been produced in court, he had
not expected to address the jury at all; but that that testimony had
so changed the whole tenor of the case as to make a brief argument for
the defence an apparent necessity.

Fortified by the knowledge of the story that Rhyming Joe had told, as
Ralph had just whispered it to him, Goodlaw was able to dissipate,
greatly, the force of the plaintiff's evidence, and to show how
Craft's whole story might easily be a cleverly concocted falsehood
built upon a foundation of truth. He opened up to the wondering minds
of the jurors the probable scheme which had been originated by these
two plotters, Craft and Sharpman, to raise up an heir to the estates
of Robert Burnham, an heir of whom Craft could be guardian, and a
guardian of whom Sharpman could be attorney. He explained how the
property and the funds that would thus come into their hands could be
so managed as to leave a fortune in the pocket of each of them before
they should have done with the estate.

"The scheme was a clever one," he said, "and worked well, and no
obstacle stood in the way of these conspirators until a person known
as Rhyming Joe came on the scene. This person knew the history of
Ralph's parentage and saw through Craft's duplicity; and, in an
unguarded moment, the attorney for the plaintiff closed this man's
mouth by means which we can only guess at, and sent him forth to hide
among the moral and the social wrecks that constitute the flotsam and
the jetsam of society. But his words, declaring Simon Craft's bold
scheme a fabric built upon a lie, had already struck upon the ears and
pierced into the heart of one whose tender conscience would not let
him rest with the burden of this knowledge weighing down upon it. What
was it that he heard, gentlemen? We can only conjecture. The laws of
evidence drop down upon us here and forbid that we should fully know.
But that it was a tale that brought conviction to the mind of this
brave boy you cannot doubt. It is for no light cause that he comes
here to publicly renounce his right and title to the name, the wealth,
the high maternal love that yesterday was lying at his feet and
smiling in his face. The counsel for the plaintiff tries to throw
upon him the mantle of the eavesdropper, but the breath of this boy's
lightest word lifts such a covering from him, and reveals his purity
of purpose and his agony of mind in listening to the revelation that
was made. I do not wonder that he should lose the power to move on
hearing it. I do not wonder that he should be compelled, as if by
some strange force, to sit and listen quietly to every piercing word.
I can well conceive how terrible the shock would be to one who came,
as he did, fresh from a home where love had made the hours so sweet
to him that he thought them fairer than any he had ever known before.
I can well conceive what bitter disappointment and what deep emotion
filled his breast. But the struggle that began there then between
his boyish sense of honor and his desire for home, for wealth, for
fond affection, I cannot fathom that;--it is too deep, too high,
too terrible for me to fully understand. I only know that honor was
triumphant; that he bade farewell to love, to hope, to home, to the
brightest, sweetest things in all this world of beauty, and turned his
face manfully, steadfastly, unflinchingly to the right. With the help
and counsel of one honest man, he set about to check the progress of a
mighty wrong. No disappointment discouraged him, no fear found place
in his heart, no distance was too great for him to traverse. He knew
that here, to-day, without his presence, injustice would be done,
dishonesty would be rewarded, and shameless fraud prevail. It was
for him, and him alone, to stop it, and he set out upon his journey
hither. The powers of darkness were arrayed against him, fate scowled
savagely upon him, disaster blocked his path, the iron horse refused
to draw him, but he remained undaunted and determined. He had no time
to lose; he left the conquered power of steam behind him, and started
out alone through heat and dust to reach the place of justice. With
bared, bruised feet and aching limbs and parched tongue he hurried,
on, walking, running, as he could, dragging himself at last into the
presence of the court at the very moment when the scales of justice
were trembling for the downward plunge, and spoke the words that
checked the course of legal crime, that placed the chains of hopeless
toil upon his own weak limbs, but that gave the world--another hero!

"Gentlemen of the jury, I have labored at the bar of this court for
more than thirty years, but I never saw before a specimen of moral
courage fit to bear comparison with this; I never in my life before
saw such a lofty deed of heroism so magnificently done. And do you
think that such a boy as this would lie? Do you think that such a boy
as this would say to you one word that did not rise from the deep
conviction of an honest heart?

"I leave the case in your hands, gentlemen; you are to choose between
selfish greed and honest sacrifice, between the force of cunning craft
and the mighty power of truth. See to it that you choose rightly and
well."

The rumble of applause from the court-room as Goodlaw resumed his seat
was quickly suppressed by the officers, and Sharpman arose to speak.
He was calm and courteous, and seemed sanguine of success. But his
mind was filled with the darkness of disappointment and the dread of
disaster; and his heart was heavy with its bitterness toward those who
had blocked his path. He knew that Ralph's testimony ought to bear but
lightly on the case, but he feared that it would weigh heavily with
the jury, and that his own character would not come out stainless. He
hardly hoped to save both case and character, but he determined to
make the strongest effort of which he was capable. He reviewed the
testimony given by Mrs. Burnham concerning her child and his supposed
tragic death; he recalled all the circumstances connected with the
railroad accident, and repeated the statements of the witnesses
concerning the old man and the child; he gave again the history of
Ralph's life, and of Simon Craft's searching and failures and success;
he contended, with all the powers of logic and oratory at his command,
that Ralph Burnham was saved from the wreck at Cherry Brook, and Was
that moment sitting by his mother before the faces and eyes of the
court and jury.

"Until to-day," he said, "every one who has heard this evidence, and
taken interest in this case, has believed, as I do, that this boy is
Robert Burnham's son. The boy's mother believed it, the counsel for
the defence believed it, the lad himself believed it, his Honor on the
bench, and you, gentlemen in the jury-box, I doubt not, all believed
it; indeed it was agreed by all parties that nothing remained to be
done but to take your verdict for the plaintiff. But, lo! this child
makes his dramatic entrance into the presence of the court, and, under
the inspired guidance of defendant's counsel, tells his story of
eavesdropping, and when it is done my learned friend has the temerity
to ask you to throw away your reason, to dismiss logic from your
minds, to trample law under your feet, to scatter the evidence to the
four winds of heaven, and to believe what? Why, a boy's silly story of
an absurd and palpable lie?

"I did not go upon the witness-stand to contradict this fairy tale; it
did not seem to be worth the while.

"Consider it for a moment. This youth says he came to my office last
night and found me in the inner room in conversation with another
person. I shall not deny that. Supposing it to be true, there was
nothing strange or wrong in it, was there? But what does this boy whom
my learned friend has lauded to the skies for his manliness and honor
do next? Why, according to his own story, he steals into the darkness
of the outer office and seats himself to listen to the conversation
in the inner room, and hears--what? No good of himself certainly.
Eavesdroppers never do hear good of themselves. But he thinks he hears
the voice of a person whom no one in this court-room ever heard of or
thought of before, nor has seen or heard of since--a person who, I
daresay, has existence only in this child's imagination; he thinks
he hears this person declare that he, Ralph, is not Robert Burnham's
son, and, by way of embellishing his tale, he adds statements which
are still more absurd, statements on the strength of which my learned
friend hopes to darken in your eyes the character of the counsel for
the plaintiff. I trust, gentlemen, that I am too well known at the bar
of this court and in this community to have my moral standing swept
away by such a flimsy falsehood as you see this to be. And so, to-day,
this child comes into court and declares, with solemn asseveration,
that the evidence fixing his identity beyond dispute or question is
all a lie; and what is this declaration worth? His Honor will tell
you, in his charge, I have no doubt, that this boy's statement,
founded, as he himself says, on hearsay, is valueless in law, and
should have no weight in your minds. But I do not ask you to base your
judgment on technicalities of law. I ask you to base it simply on the
reasonable evidence in this case.

"What explanation there can be of this lad's conduct, I have not, as
yet, been ably, fully, to determine.

"I have tried, in my own mind, to throw the mantle of charity across
him. I have tried to think that, coming from an unaccustomed meal, his
stomach loaded with rich food, he no sooner sank into the office chair
than he fell asleep and dreamed. It is not improbable. The power of
dreams is great on children's minds, as all of you may know. But in
the face of these developments I can hardly bring myself to accept
this theory. There is too much method in the child's madness. It
looks more like the outcome of some desperate move on the part of
this defence to win the game which they have seen slipping from their
control. It looks like a deep-laid plan to rob my aged and honored
client of the credit to which he is entitled for rescuing this boy at
the risk of his life, for caring for him through poverty and disease,
for finding him when his own mother had given him up for dead, and
restoring him to the bosom of his family. It looks as though they
feared that this old man, already trembling on the brink of the grave,
would snatch some comfort for his remaining days out of the pittance
that he might hope to collect from this vast estate for services that
ought to be beyond price. It looks as though hatred and jealousy were
combined in a desperate effort to crush the counsel for the plaintiff.
The counsel for the plaintiff can afford to laugh at their animosity
toward himself, but he cannot help his indignation at their plot. Now,
let us see.

"It is acknowledged that the boy Ralph spent the larger part of
yesterday afternoon at the house of this defendant, and was fed and
flattered till he nearly lost his head in telling of it. That is a
strange circumstance, to begin with. How many private consultations
he has had with counsel for defence, I know not. Neither do I know
what tempting inducements have been held out to him to turn traitor
to those who have been his truest friends. These things I can only
imagine. But that fine promises have been made to him, that pictures
of plenty have been unfolded to his gaze, that the glitter of gold and
the sheen of silver have dazzled his young eyes, there can be little
doubt. So he has seen visions and dreamed dreams, at will; he has
endured terrible temptations, and fought great moral battles, by
special request, and has come off more than victor, in the counsel's
mind. To-day everything is ready for the carrying-out of their skilful
scheme. At the right moment the counsel gives the signal, and the boy
darts in, hatless, shoeless, ragged, and dusty, for the occasion, and
tragic to the counsel's heart's content, and is put at once upon the
stand to tell his made-up tale, and--"

Sharpman heard a slight noise behind him, and some one exclaimed:--

"He has fainted!"

The lawyer stopped in his harangue and turned in time to see Ralph
lying in a heap on the floor, just as he had slipped that moment from
his chair. The boy had listened to Goodlaw's praises of his conduct
with a vague feeling that he was undeserving of so much credit for it.
But when Sharpman, advancing in his speech, charged him with having
dreamed his story, he was astounded. He thought it was the strangest
thing he had ever heard of. For was not Mr. Sharpman there, himself?
and did not he know that it was all real and true? He could not
understand the lawyer's allegation. Later on, when Sharpman declared
boldly that Ralph's statement on the witness-stand was a carefully
concocted falsehood, the bluntness of the charge was like a cruel
blow, and the boy's sensitive nerves shrank and quivered beneath it;
then his lips grew pale, his breath came in gasps, the room went
swimming round him, darkness came before his eyes, and his weak body,
enfeebled by prolonged fasting and excitement, slipped down to the
floor.

The people in the court-room scrambled to their feet again to look
over into the bar.

A man who had entered the room in time to hear Sharpman's brutal
speech pushed his way through the crowd, and hurried down to the place
where Ralph was lying. It was Bachelor Billy.

In a moment he was down on his knees by the boy's side, chafing the
small cold hands and wrists, while Mrs. Burnham, kneeling on the other
side, was dipping her handkerchief into a glass of water, and bathing
the lad's face.

Bachelor Billy turned on his knees and looked up angrily at Sharpman.
"Mayhap an' ye've killet 'im," he said, "wi' your traish an' your
lees!" Then he rose to his feet and continued: "Can ye no' tell when
a lad speaks the truth? Mon! he's as honest as the day is lang! But
what's the use o' tellin' ye? ye ken it yoursel'. Ye _wull_ be fause
to 'im!"

His lips were white with passion as he knelt again by the side of the
unconscious boy.

"Ye're verra gude to the lad, ma'am," he said to Mrs. Burnham, who had
raised Ralph's head in her arms and was pressing her wet handkerchief
against it; "ye're verra gude, but ma mind is to tak' 'im hame an'
ten' till 'im mysel'. He was ower-tired, d'ye see, wi' the trooble an'
the toil, an' noo I fear me an they've broke the hert o' 'im."

Then Bachelor Billy, lifting the boy up in his arms, set his face
toward the door. The people pressed back and made way for him as he
passed up the aisle holding the drooping body very tenderly, looking
down at times with great compassion into the white face that lay
against his breast; and the eyes that watched his sturdy back until
it disappeared from view were wet with sympathetic tears.

When the doors had closed behind him, Sharpman turned again to the
jury, with a bitterly sarcastic smile upon his face.

"Another chapter in the made-up tragedy," he said, "performed with
marvellous skill as you can see. My learned friend has drilled his
people well. He has made consummate actors of them all. And yet he
would have you think that one is but an honest fool, and that the
other is as innocent as a babe in arms."

Up among the people some one hissed, then some one else joined in,
and, before the judge and officers could restore order in the room,
the indignant crowd had greeted Sharpman's words with a perfect
torrent of groans and hisses. Then the wily lawyer realized that he
was making a mistake. He knew that he could not afford to gain the
ill-will of the populace, and accordingly he changed the tenor of his
speech. He spoke generally of law and justice, and particularly of the
weight of evidence in the case at bar. He dwelt with much emphasis on
Simon Craft's bravery, self-sacrifice, poverty, toil, and suffering;
and, with a burst of oratory that made the walls re-echo with the
sound of his resonant voice, he closed his address and resumed his
seat.

Then the judge delivered the charge in a calm, dispassionate way. He
reviewed the evidence very briefly, warning the jury to reject from
their minds all improper declarations of any witness or other person,
and directing them to rest their decision only on the legal evidence
in the case. He instructed them that although the boy Ralph's
declaration that he was not Robert Burnham's son might be regarded by
them, yet they must also take into consideration the fact that his
opinion was founded partly, if not wholly, on hearsay, and, for that
reason, would be of little value to them in making up their decision.
Any evidence of the alleged conversation at Mr. Sharpman's office, he
said, must be rejected wholly. He warned them to dismiss from their
minds all prejudice or sympathy that might have been aroused by the
speeches of counsel, or the appearance of witnesses in court, and to
take into consideration and decide upon but one question, namely:
whether the boy Ralph is or is not the son of the late Robert Burnham:
that, laying aside all other questions, matters, and things, they must
decide that and that alone, according to the law and the evidence.

When the judge had finished his charge a constable was sworn, and,
followed by the twelve jurors, he marched from the court-room.

It was already after six o'clock, so the crier was directed to adjourn
the court, and, a few minutes later, the judge, the lawyers, the
witnesses, and the spectators had all disappeared, and the room
was empty.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS.


Every one expected that the jury would come into court with a verdict
at the opening of the session on Tuesday morning. There was much
difference of opinion, however, as to what that verdict would be.

But the morning hours went by and the jury still remained in their
room. The constable who watched at the door shook his head and smiled
when asked about the probability of an early agreement. No one seemed
to know just how the jury stood.

Sharpman and his client had been greatly disheartened on Monday night,
and had confessed as much to each other; but the longer the jury
remained out the more hope they gathered. It was apparent that the
verdict would not be rendered under the impulses of the moment; and
that the jury were applying the principles of cold law and stern logic
to the case, there seemed to be little doubt.

But, as a matter of fact, the jury were doing no such thing.

They believed, to a man, that Ralph had told the truth, and that such
an event as he had described had actually taken place in Sharpman's
office; and, notwithstanding the judge's charge, they were trying to
harmonize Ralph's statement with the evidence of the witnesses who
had corroborated Simon Craft's story. This led them into so many
difficulties that they finally abandoned the effort, and the questions
before them were gradually reduced to just one. That question was not
whether Ralph was the son of Robert Burnham; but it was: which would
be better for the boy, to decide in favor of the plaintiff or of the
defendant. If they found for the plaintiff, they would throw the
boy's fortune into the hands of Craft and Sharpman, where they feared
the greater part of it would finally remain. If they found for the
defendant, they would practically consign the lad to a life of
homelessness and toil. It was to discuss and settle this question,
therefore, that the jury remained locked up in their room through so
many hours.

The day wore on and no verdict was rendered. Sharpman's spirits
continued to rise, and Goodlaw feared that his case was lost.

At four o'clock the jury sent in word that they had agreed, and a few
minutes later they filed into the court-room. When their verdict had
been inspected by the judge it was given to the prothonotary to read.
He faced the jury, saying:--

"Gentlemen of the jury, listen to your verdict as the court has it
recorded. In the case wherein Simon Craft, guardian of the estate
of Ralph Burnham, a minor, is plaintiff, and Margaret Burnham,
administrator of the estate of Robert Burnham, deceased, is defendant,
you say you find for the defendant, and that the boy Ralph is _not_
the son of Robert Burnham. So say you all?"

The jury nodded assent, and the verdict was filed. That settled it.
Craft and Sharpman were beaten.

It was very strange that a solid truth, backed up by abundant and
irreproachable evidence, presented under the strict rules of law and
the solemn sanction of an oath, should be upset and shattered by a
flimsy falsehood told by an unknown adventurer, heard unawares by
a listening child, and denied a proper entrance into court. It was
strange but it was very true. Yet in that ruin was involved one of
the boldest schemes for legal plunder that was ever carried into the
courts of Luzerne County.

Sharpman felt that a fortune had slipped from his grasp, and that he
had lost it by reason of his own credulity and fear. He saw now the
mistake he had made in not defying Rhyming Joe. He knew now that the
fellow never would have dared to appear in court as a witness. He felt
that he had not only lost his money, but that he had come dangerously
near to losing what character he had, also. He knew that it was all
due to his own fault, and he was humiliated and angry with himself,
and bitter toward every one who had sided with the defendant.

But if Sharpman's disappointment was great, that of his client was
tenfold greater.

Simon Craft was in a most unenviable mood. At times, indeed, he grew
fairly desperate. The golden bubble that he had been chasing for eight
years had burst and vanished. He had told the truth, he had been
honest in his statements, he had sought to do the boy and the boy's
mother a great favor, and they had turned against him, and the verdict
of the jury had placed upon him the stigma of perjury. This was the
burden of his complaint. But aside from this he was filled with bitter
regret. If he had only closed his bargain with Robert Burnham on the
day it had been made! If he had only made his proposition to Mrs.
Burnham as he had intended doing, instead of going into this wild
scheme with this visionary lawyer! This was his silent sorrow. His
misery was deep and apparent. He had grown to be ten years older in a
day. This misfortune, he said, bitterly, was the result of trying to
be honest and to do good. This was the reward of virtue, these the
wages of charity.

Tired, at last, of railing at abstract principles of right, he turned
his attention to those who had been instrumental in his downfall. The
judge, the jury, and the attorney for the defence, all came in for a
share of his malignant hatred and abuse. For Mrs. Burnham he had only
silent contempt. Her honest desire to have right done had been too
apparent from the start. The only fault he had to find with her was
that she did not come to his rescue when the tide was turning against
him. But against Ralph the old man's wrath and indignation were
intense.

Had he not saved the child from death? Had he not fed and clothed and
cared for him during five years? Had he not rescued him from oblivion,
and made every effort to endow him with wealth and position and an
honored name? And then, to think that in the very moment when these
efforts were about to meet with just success, this boy had turned
against him, and brought ruin and disgrace upon him. Oh, it was too
much, too much!

If he could only have the lad in his possession for a week, he
thought, for a day, for an hour even, he would teach him the cost of
turning traitor to his friends. Oh, he would teach him!

Then it occurred to him that perhaps he might get possession of the
boy, and permanent possession at that. Had not Ralph sworn that he was
Simon Craft's grandson? Had not the jury accepted Ralph's testimony
as true? And had not the court ordered judgment to be entered on the
jury's verdict? Well, if the court had declared the boy to be his
grandson, he was entitled to him, was he not? If the boy was able to
earn anything, he was entitled to his earnings, was he not? If he was
the child's grandfather, then he had authority to take him, to govern
him, to punish him for disobedience--was not that true?

Old Simon rose from his chair and began to walk up and down the room,
hammering his cane upon the floor at every step.

The idea was a good one, a very good one, and he resolved to act upon
it without delay. He would go the very next day and get the boy and
take him to Philadelphia.

But suppose Ralph should refuse to go, and suppose Bachelor Billy,
with his strong arms, should stand by to protect the lad from force,
what then? Well, there was a law to meet just such a case as that. He
knew of an instance where a child had been taken by its grandfather by
virtue of a writ of _habeas corpus_.

He would get such a writ, the sheriff should go with him, they would
bring Ralph to court again; and since the law had declared the boy to
be Simon Craft's grandson, the law could do nothing else than to place
him in Simon Craft's custody. Then the old man went to bed, thinking
that in the morning he would get Sharpman to prepare for him the
papers that would be necessary to carry his plan into execution.

He derived much pleasure from his dreams that night, for he dreamed
of torturing poor Ralph to his heart's content.

When Bachelor Billy left the court-room that Monday evening with his
unconscious burden in his arms, he remained only long enough in the
court-house square to revive the boy, then he took him to the railway
station, and they went together, by the earliest train, to Scranton.

The next morning Ralph felt very weak and miserable, and did not leave
the house; and Bachelor Billy came home at noon to see him and to
learn what news, if any, had been received from Wilkesbarre. Both he
and Ralph expected that a verdict would be rendered for the defendant,
in accordance with Ralph's testimony, and neither of them were
surprised, therefore, when Andy Gilgallon came up from the city after
supper and informed them that the jury had so found. That settled the
matter, at any rate. It was a relief to Ralph to know that it was at
an end; that he was through with courts and lawyers and judges and
juries, and that there need be no further effort on his part to escape
from unmerited fortune. The tumult that had raged in his mind through
many hours was at last stilled, and that night he slept. He wanted
to go back the next morning to his work at the breaker, but Bachelor
Billy would not allow him to do so. He still looked very pale and
weak, and the anxious man resolved to come home at noon again that day
to see to the lad's health.

Indeed, as the morning wore on, Ralph acknowledged to himself that he
did not feel so well. His head was very heavy, and there was a bruised
feeling over the entire surface of his body. It was a dull day, too;
it rained a little now and then, and was cloudy all the morning. He
sat indoors the most of the time, reading a little, sleeping a little,
and thinking a great deal. The sense of his loss was coming back upon
him very strongly. It was not so much the loss of wealth, or of name,
or of the power to do other and better things than he had ever done
before that grieved him now. But it was that the dear and gentle lady
who was to have been his mother, who had verily been a mother to him
for one sweet day, was a mother to him no longer. To feel that he was
nothing to her now, no more, indeed, than any other ragged, dust-black
boy in Burnham Breaker, this was what brought pain and sorrow to his
heart, and made the hot tears come into his eyes in spite of his
determined effort to hold them back.

He was sitting in his accustomed chair, facing the dying embers of a
little wood fire that he had built, for the morning was a chilly one.

Behind him the door was opened and some one entered the room from the
street. He thought it was Bachelor Billy, just come from work, and
he straightened up in his chair and tried to wipe away the traces of
tears from his face before he should turn to give him greeting.

"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said; "ain't you home early?"

He was still rubbing industriously at his eyes. Receiving no answer he
looked around.

It was not Uncle Billy. It was Simon Craft.

Ralph uttered a cry of surprise and terror, and retreated into a
corner of the room. Old Simon, looking at him maliciously from under
his bushy brows, gradually extended his thin lips into a wicked smile.

"What!" he exclaimed, "is it possible that you are afraid of your
affectionate old grandfather? Why, I thought you desired nothing so
much as to go and live with him and be his pet."

The boy's worst fears were realized. Old Simon had come for him.

"I won't go back with you!" he cried. "I won't! I won't!" Then,
changing his tone to one of appealing, he continued: "You didn't come
for me, did you, gran'pa? you won't make me go back with you, will
you?"

"I'm afraid I can't do without you any longer," said Craft, coming
nearer and looking Ralph over carefully. "I'm getting old and sick,
and your presence will be a great comfort to me in my declining years.
Besides, my affection for you is so great that I feel that I couldn't
do without you; oh, I couldn't, I couldn't possibly!" And the old man
actually chuckled himself into a fit of coughing at his grim sarcasm.

"But I don't want to go," persisted the boy. "I'm very happy here.
Uncle Billy's very good to me, an' I'd ruther stay, a good deal
ruther."

At the mention of Uncle Billy's name Old Simon's smile vanished and he
advanced threateningly toward the boy, striking his cane repeatedly on
the floor.

"It don't matter what you want," he said, harshly; "you were crazy to
be my grandson; now the law says you are, and the law gives me the
right to take you and do what I choose with you. Oh, you've got to go!
so get your hat and come along, and don't let's have any more nonsense
about it!"

"Gran'pa--Gran'pa Simon!" exclaimed the terrified boy, shrinking still
farther away, "I can't go back to Philadelphy, I can't! I couldn't
live, I'd die if I went back there! I'd--"

Craft interrupted him: "Well, if you do die, it won't be because
you're killed with kindness, I warrant you. You've cheated me out of
a living and yourself out of a fortune; you've made your own bed, now
you've got to lie in it. Come on, I say! get your hat and come along!"

The old man was working himself into a passion. There was danger in
his eyes. Ralph knew it, too, but the thought of going back to live
with Simon Craft was such a dreadful one to him that he could not
refrain from further pleading.

"I know I belong to you, Gran'pa Simon," he said, "an' I know I've got
to mind you; but please don't make me go back to live with you; please
don't! I'll do anything else in the world you want me to; I'll give
you ev'ry dollar I earn if you'll let me stay here, ev'ry dollar; an'
I'll work hard, too, ev'ry day. I'll--I'll give you--I'll give you--

"Well, what'll you give me? Out with it!"

It was a desperate chance; it called for sacrifice, but Ralph felt
that he would offer it gladly if he could thereby be saved.

"I'll give you," he said, "all the money I've got saved up."

"How much money have you got saved up?" The light of hatred in the
man's eyes gave place, for the time being, to the light of greed.

"About thirty-two dollars."

"Well, give it to me, then, and be quick about it!"

Ralph went to a small closet built into the wall over the chimney, and
took from it a little box.

That box contained his accumulated savings. With a large portion of
the money he had thought to buy new clothing for himself. He had
determined that he would not go to live with Mrs. Burnham, dressed
like a beggar. He would have clothes befitting his station in life.
Indeed, he and Uncle Billy were to have gone out the day before to
make the necessary purchases; but since the change came the matter had
not been thought of. Now he should pay it to Simon Craft as the price
of his freedom. He was willing and more than willing to do so. He
would have given all he ever hoped to earn to save himself from that
man's custody, and would have considered it a cheap release.

He took the money from the box,--it was all paper money,--and counted
it carefully out into Old Simon's trembling hand. There were just
thirty-two dollars.

"Is that all?" said Craft, folding the bills and putting them into an
inside pocket as he spoke.

"Yes, that's all."

"You haven't got any more hidden around the house anywhere, have you?
Don't lie to me, now!"

"Oh, no! I've given you ev'ry cent I had, ev'ry single cent."

"Well, then, get your hat and come along."

"Wh--what?" Ralph was staring at the man in astonishment. He thought
he had just bought his freedom, and that he need not go.

"Get your hat and come along, I say; and be quick about it? I can't
wait here all day."

"Where--where to?"

"Why, home with me, of course. Where would I take you?"

"But I gave you the money to let me stay here with Uncle Billy; you
said you would take it for that."

"No, I didn't. I told you to give it to me. The money belongs to me
the same as you do. Now, are you coming, or do you want me to help
you?"

Ralph's face was white with indignation. He had been willing to do
what was right. He thought he had made a fair bargain; but now,
this--this was an outrage. His spirit rose against it. The old sense
of fearlessness took possession of him. He looked the man squarely
in the eyes. His voice was firm and his hands were clenched with
resolution. "I will not go with you," he said.

"What's that?" Craft looked down on the boy in astonishment.

"I say I will not go with you," repeated Ralph; "that's all--I won't
go."

Then the old man's wrath was let loose.

"You beggar!" he shouted, "how dare you disobey me! I'll teach you!"
He raised his cane threateningly as he spoke.

"Hit me," said Ralph, "kill me if you want to; I'd ruther die than go
back to live with you."

Old Simon grasped his cane by its foot and raised it above his
head. In another instant it would have descended on the body of the
unfortunate boy; but in that instant some one seized it from behind,
wrenched it from Craft's weak grasp, and flung it into the street.

It was Bachelor Billy; He had entered at the open door unseen. He
seized Craft's shoulders and whirled him around till the two men stood
face to face.

"Mon!" he exclaimed, "mon! an' yon steck had a-fallen o' the lad's
head, I dinna ken what I s'ould 'a' done till ye. Ye're lucky to be
auld an' sick, or ye s'ould feel the weight o' ma han' as it is."

But Craft was not subdued. On the contrary his rage grew more fierce.
"What's the boy to you?" he shouted, savagely. "You leave us alone. He
belongs to me; he shall go with me."

It was a full half-minute before Bachelor Billy's dull mind grasped
the situation. Meanwhile he was looking down into Ralph's white face.
Then he turned again to Craft.

"Never!" he said, solemnly. "Ye s'all never tak' 'im. I'll see the lad
in his grave first." After a moment he continued, "It's no' safe for
ye to stay longer wi' us; it's better ye s'ould go."

Then another man entered at the open door. It was the sheriff of
Luzerne County. He held the writ of _habeas corpus_ in his hand.

"Why didn't you wait for me," he said, turning angrily to Craft,
"instead of coming here to pick a quarrel with these people?"

"That's none of your business," replied the old man. "You've got your
writ, now do your duty or I'll--" A fit of coughing attacked him, and
he dropped into a chair to give way to it.

The sheriff looked at him contemptuously for a moment, then he turned
to Bachelor Billy.

"This miserable old man," he said, "has had a writ of _habeas corpus_
issued, commanding you to produce immediately before the judge at
Wilkesbarre the body of the boy Ralph. It is my place to see that the
writ is properly executed. There's no help for it, so I think you had
better get ready, and we will go as soon as possible." And he handed
to Bachelor Billy a copy of the writ.

"I ha' no time to read it," said Billy, "but if the judge says as the
lad s'ould gae to court again, he s'all gae. We mus' obey the law. An'
I s'all gae wi' 'im. Whaur the lad gae's I s'all gae. I s'all stay by
'im nicht an' day. If the law says he mus' live wi' Seemon Craft, then
I s'all live wi' Seemon Craft also. I ha' nursit 'im too long, an'
lovit 'im too weel to turn 'im alone into the wolfs den noo."

In a minute or two Craft recovered, but the coughing had left him very
weak. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked around for his cane.
He had grown calm. He thought that the game was his at any rate, and
that it was of no use for him to lose strength over it. "You'll walk
faster than I," he said, "so I'll be going. If I miss this train I
can't get started to Philadelphia with the boy before to-morrow." He
tottered out into the road, picked up his cane, and trudged on down
the hill toward the city.

It was not long before the two men and the boy were ready to go also.

"Keep up your courage, my son," said the sheriff kindly, for the sight
of Ralph's face aroused his sympathy. "Keep up your courage; the court
has got to pass on this matter yet. You don't have to go with the old
man till the judge says so."

"Tak' heart," added Bachelor Billy, "tak' heart, laddie. It's not all
ower wi' us yet. I canna thenk as any law'd put a lamb i' the wolf's
teeth."

"I don't know," said the sheriff, as they stood on the step for a
moment before leaving the house. "I don't know how you'll make it. I
suppose, as far as the law's concerned, the old man's on the right
track. As near as I can make out, the way the law-suit turned, he has
a legal right to the custody of the child and to his earnings. But, if
I was the lad, he'd no sooner get me to Philadelphia than I'd give him
the slip. You've done it once, Ralph, you can do it again, can't you?"

"I don't know," answered the boy, weakly; "I don't believe I'd try. If
I have to go back with him I wouldn't live very long any way, an' it
wouldn't pay to run away again. It don't make much difference; I ain't
got anybody left now but Uncle Billy, an', if he goes with me, I guess
I can stan' it till it's through with."

It was the first time in his life that Ralph had ever spoken in so
despondent a way, and Bachelor Billy was alarmed. "Bear up, lad," he
said, "bear up. We'll mak' the best o' it; an' they canna do much harm
till ye wi' Uncle Billy a-stannin' by."

Mrs. Maloney had come to her door and stood there, looking at the trio
in sorrowful surprise.

"Good-by, Mrs. Maloney!" said Ralph going up to her. "It ain't likely
I'll ever come back here any more, an' you've been very good to me,
Mrs. Maloney, very good indeed, an'--an'--good-by!"

"An' where do ye be goin' Ralphy?"

"Back to Gran'pa Simon's, I s'pose. He's come for me and he's got a
right to take me."

The sheriff was looking uneasily at his watch. "Come," he said, "we'll
have to hurry to catch the train."

The good woman bent down and kissed the boy tenderly. "Good-by to ye,
darlin'," she said, "an' the saints protict ye." Then she burst into
tears, and, throwing her apron up before her face, she held it against
her eyes and went, backward, into the house.

Ralph laid hold of Bachelor Billy's rough hand affectionately, and
they walked rapidly away.

At the bend in the street, the boy turned to look back for the last
time upon the cottage which had been his home. A happy home it had
been to him, a very happy home indeed. He never knew before how dear
the old place was to him. The brow of the hill which they were now
descending hid the house at last from sight, and, with tear-blinded
eyes, Ralph turned his face again toward the city, toward the misery
of the court-room, toward the desolate and dreadful prospect of a life
with Simon Craft.




CHAPTER XIX.

BACK TO THE BREAKER.


It was a dull day in the court-room at Wilkesbarre. The jury trials
had all been disposed of, and for the last hour or more the court
had been listening to an argument on a rule for a new trial in an
ejectment case. It was a very uninteresting matter. Every one had
left the court-room with the exception of the court officers, a few
lawyers, and a half-dozen spectators who seemed to be there for the
purpose of resting on the benches rather than with any desire to hear
the proceedings before the court.

The lawyers on both sides had concluded their arguments, and the judge
was bundling together the papers in the case and trying to encircle
the bulky package with a heavy rubber band.

Then the court-room door was opened, and the sheriff came down the
aisle, accompanied by Ralph and Bachelor Billy. A moment later, Simon
Craft followed them to the bar. Sharpman, who was sitting inside the
railing by a table, looked up with disgust plainly marked on his face
as the old man entered and sat down beside him.

He had prepared the petition for a writ of _habeas corpus_, at Craft's
request, and had agreed to appear in his behalf when the writ should
be returned. He shared, in some small degree, the old man's desire for
revenge on those who had been instrumental in destroying their scheme.
But, as the day wore on, the matter took on a slightly different
aspect in his mind. In the first place, he doubted whether the court
would order Ralph to be returned into Craft's custody. In the next
place, he had no love for his client. He had been using him simply
as a tool; it was time now to cast him aside since he could be of no
further benefit to him. Besides, the old man had come to be annoying
and repulsive, and he had no money to pay for legal services. Then,
there was still an opportunity to recover some of the personal
prestige he had lost in his bitter advocacy of Craft's cause before
the jury. In short, he had deliberately resolved to desert his client
at the first opportunity.

The sheriff endorsed his return on the writ and filed it.

The judge looked at the papers, and then he called Bachelor Billy
before him. "I see," he said, "that you have produced the body of the
boy Ralph as you were directed to do. Have you a lawyer?"

"I ha' none," answered the man. "I did na ken as I needit ony."

"We do not think you do, either, as we understand the case. The
prothonotary will endorse a simple return on the writ, setting forth
the production of the boy, and you may sign it. We think that is all
that will be necessary on your part. Now you may be seated."

The judge turned to Sharpman.

"Well, Mr. Sharpman," he said, "what have you to offer on the part of
your client?"

Sharpman arose. "If the court please," he responded, "I would
respectfully ask to be allowed, at this juncture, to withdraw from
the case. I prepared and presented the petition as a matter of duty
to a client. I do not conceive it to be my duty to render any further
assistance. That client, either through ignorance or deception, has
been the means of placing me in a false and unenviable light before
the court and before this community, in the suit which has just
closed. I have neither the desire nor the opportunity to set myself
right in that matter, but I do wish and I have fully determined to
wash my hands of the whole affair. From this time forth I shall have
nothing to do with it."

Sharpman resumed his seat, while Craft stared at him in astonishment
and with growing anger.

He could hardly believe that the man who had led him into this scheme,
and whose unpardonable blunder had brought disaster on them both, was
now not only deserting him, but heaping ignominy on his head. Every
moment was adding to his bitterness and rage.

"Well, Mr. Craft," said the judge, "what have you to offer in this
matter? Your attorney seems to have left you to handle the case for
yourself; we will hear you."

"My attorney is a rascal," said Craft, white with passion, as he
arose. "His part and presence in that trial was a curse on it from the
beginning. He wasn't satisfied to ruin me, but he must now seek to
disgrace me as well. He is--"

The judge interrupted him:--

"We do not care to hear your opinion of Mr. Sharpman; we have neither
the time nor the disposition to listen to it. You caused this
defendant to produce before us the body of the boy Ralph. They are
both here; what further do you desire?"

"I desire to take the boy home with me. The judgment of this court
is that he is my grandson. In the absence of other persons legally
entitled to take charge of him, I claim that right. I ask the court to
order him into my custody."

The old man resumed his seat, and immediately fell into his customary
fit of coughing.

When he had recovered, the judge, who had in the meantime been writing
rapidly, said:--

"We cannot agree with you, Mr. Craft, as to the law. Although the
presumption may be that the jury based their verdict on the boy's
testimony that he is your grandson, yet their verdict does not state
that fact specifically, and we have nothing on the record to show it.
It would be necessary for you to prove that relation here and now, by
new and independent evidence, before we could place the boy in your
custody under any circumstances. But we shall save you the trouble of
doing so by deciding the matter on other grounds. The court has heard
from your own lips, within a few days, that you are, or have been,
engaged in a business such as to make thieving and lying a common
occurrence in your life. The court has also heard from your own lips
that during the time this child was in your custody, you not only
treated him inhumanly as regarded his body, but that you put forth
every effort to destroy what has since proved itself to be a pure and
steadfast soul. A kind providence placed it in the child's power to
escape from you, and the same providence led him to the door of a man
whose tenderness, whose honor, and whose nobility of character, no
matter how humble his station in life, marks him as one eminently
worthy to care for the body and to minister to the spirit of a boy
like this.

"We feel that to take this lad now from his charge and to place him
in yours, would be to do an act so utterly repugnant to justice, to
humanity, and to law, that, if done, it ought to drag us from this
bench in disgrace. We have marked your petition dismissed; we have
ordered you to pay the cost of this proceeding, and we have remanded
the boy Ralph to the custody of William Buckley."

Simon Craft said not a word. He rose from his chair, steadied himself
for a moment on his cane, then shuffled up the aisle, out at the door
and down the hall into the street. Disappointment, anger, bitter
hatred, raged in his heart and distorted his face. The weight of
years, of disease, of a criminal life, sat heavily upon him as he
dragged himself miserably along the crowded thoroughfare, looking
neither to the right nor the left, thinking only of the evil burden of
his own misfortunes. Now and then some one who recognized him stopped,
turned, looked at him scornfully for a moment, and passed on. Then he
was lost to view. He was never seen in the city of Wilkesbarre again.
He left no friends behind him there. He was first ridiculed, then
despised, and then--forgotten.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was two weeks after this before Ralph was able to return to his
work. So much excitement, so much mental distress and bodily fatigue
in so short a time, had occasioned a severe shock to his system, and
he rallied from it but slowly.

One Monday morning, however, he went back to his accustomed work at
the breaker.

He had thought that perhaps he might be ridiculed by the screen-room
boys as one who had tried to soar above his fellows and had fallen
ignominiously back to the earth. He expected to be greeted with
jeering words and with cutting remarks, not so much in the way of
malice as of fun. He resolved to take it calmly, however, and to give
way to no show of feeling, hoping that thus the boys would soon forget
to tease him.

But when he came among them that morning, looking so thin, and
pale, and old, there was not a boy in all the waiting crowd who had
the heart or hardihood to say an unpleasant word to him or to give
utterance to a jest at his expense.

They all spoke kindly to him, and welcomed him back. Some of them did
it very awkwardly indeed, and with much embarrassment, but they made
him to understand, somehow, that they were glad to see him, and that
he still held his place among them as a companion and a friend. It was
very good in them, Ralph thought, very good indeed; he could scarcely
keep the tears back for gratitude.

He took his accustomed bench in the screen-room, and bent to his task
in the old way; but not with the old, light heart and willing fingers.
He had thought never to do this again. He had thought that life held
for him some higher, brighter, less laborious work. He had thought to
gain knowledge, to win fame, to satisfy ambition. But the storm came
with its fierce blasts of disappointment and despair, and when it had
passed, hope and joy were engulfed in the ruins it left behind it.
Henceforth there remained nothing but this, this toilsome bending over
streams of flowing coal, to-day, to-morrow, next week, next year. And
in the remote future nothing better; nothing but the laborer's pick
and shovel, or, at best, the miner's drill and powder-can and fuse. In
all the coming years there was not one bright spot to which he could
look, this day, with hope. The day itself seemed very long to him,
very long indeed and very tiresome. The heat grew burdensome; the
black dust filled his throat and lungs, the ceaseless noise became
almost unendurable; the stream of coal ran down and down in a dull
monotony that made him faint and dizzy, and the bits of blue sky seen
from the open windows never yet had seemed to him to be so far and far
away.

But the day had an end at last, as all days must have, and Ralph came
down from his seat in the dingy castle to walk with Bachelor Billy to
their home.

They went by a path that led through green fields, where the light of
the setting sun, falling on the grass and daisies, changed them to a
golden yellow as one looked on them from the distance.

When they turned the corner of the village street, they were surprised
to see horses and a carriage standing in front of Mrs. Maloney's
cottage. It was an unaccustomed sight. There was a lady there talking
to Mrs. Maloney, and she had a little girl by her side. At the second
look, Ralph recognized them as Mrs. Burnham and Mildred. Then the lady
descended from her carriage and stood at the door waiting for Bachelor
Billy and the boy to come to her. But Ralph, looking down at his black
hands and soiled clothing, hesitated and stopped in the middle of the
road. He knew that his face, too, was so covered with coal-dust as to
be almost unrecognizable. He felt that he ought not to appear before
Mrs. Burnham in this guise.

But she saw his embarrassment and called to him.

"I came to see you, Ralph," she said. "I want to talk to you both. May
I go into your house and find a chair?"

Both boy and man hurried forward then with kindly greetings, and
Bachelor Billy unlocked the door and bade her enter.

She went in and sat in the big rocking-chair, looking pale and weak,
while Ralph hurried away to wash the black dust from his face and
hands.

"Ye were verra kind, Mistress Burnham," said the man, "to sen' Ralph
the gude things to eat when he waur sick. An' the perty roses ye gie'd
'im,--he never tired o' watchin' 'em."

"I should have come myself to see him," she replied, "only that I too
have been ill. I thought to send such little delicacies as might tempt
his appetite. I knew that he must be quite exhausted after so great a
strain upon his nervous system. The excitement wore me out, and I had
no such struggle as he had. I am glad he has rallied from the shock."

"He's not ower strang yet; ye ken that by lukin' at 'im; but he's a
braw lad, a braw lad."

The lady turned and looked earnestly into Bachelor Billy's face.

"He's the bravest boy," she said, "the very bravest boy I ever knew
or heard, of, and the very best. I want him, Billy; I have come here
to-night to ask you if I may have him. Son or no son, he is very dear
to me, and I feel that I cannot do without him."

For a minute the man was silent. Down deep in his heart there had been
a spark of rejoicing at the probability that Ralph would stay with him
now indefinitely. He had pushed it as far out of sight as possible,
because it was a selfish rejoicing, and he felt that it was not right
since it came as a result of the boy's misfortune.

And now suddenly the fear of loss had quenched it entirely, and the
dread of being left alone came back upon him in full force.

He bit his lip before replying, to help hold back his mingled feeling
of pleasure at the bright prospect opening for Ralph, and of pain for
the separation which must follow.

"I dinna ken," he said at last, "how aught could be better for the
lad than bein' wi' ye. Ye're ower kin' to think o' it. It'll be hard
partin' wi' im, but, if the lad wishes it, he s'all gae. I ha'
no claim on 'im only to do what's best for 'im as I ken it. He's
a-comin'; he'll speak for 'imsel'."

Ralph came back into the room with face and hands as clean as a
hurried washing could make them. "What thenk ye," said Bachelor Billy
to him, "that the lady wants for ye to do?"

"I don't know," replied the boy, looking uneasily from one to the
other; "but she's been very good to me, an', whatever it is, I'll try
to do it."

"I want you to go home with me, Ralph," said Mrs. Burnham, "and live
with me and be my son. I am not sure yet that you are not my child. We
shall find that out. With the new light we have we shall make a new
search for proofs of your identity, but that may take weeks, perhaps
months. In the meantime I cannot do without you. I want you to come to
me now, and, whatever the result of this new investigation may be, I
want you to stay with me and be my son. Will you come?"

She had taken both the boy's hands and had drawn him to her, and was
looking up into his face with tenderness and longing.

Ralph could not speak. He was dumb with the joy of hearing her kindly
earnest words. A light of great gladness broke in upon his mind. The
world had become bright and beautiful once more. He was not to be
without home and love and learning after all. Then came second
thoughts, bringing doubt, hesitancy, mental struggling.

Still he was silent, looking out through the open door to the eastern
hills, where the sunlight lingered lovingly with golden radiance. On
the boy's face the lights and shadows, coming and going, marked the
progress of the conflict in his mind.

The lady put her arm around him and drew him closer to her, regardless
of his soiled and dusty clothing. She was still looking into his eyes.

"You will come, will you not, Ralph? We want you so much, so very
much; do we not, Mildred?" she asked, turning to her little daughter,
who stood at the other side of her chair.

"Indeed we do," answered the child. "Mamma wants you an' I want you.
I don't have anybody to play wiv me half the time, 'cept Towser; an'
yeste'day I asked Towser if he wanted you, an' Towser said 'bow,' an'
that means 'yes.'"

"There! you see we all want you, Ralph," said Mrs. Burnham, smiling;
"the entire family wants you. Now, you will come, won't you?"

The boy had looked across to the little girl, over to Bachelor Billy,
who stood leaning against the mantel, and then down again into the
lady's eyes. It was almost pitiful to look into his face and see the
strong emotion outlined there, marking the fierceness of the conflict
in his mind between a great desire for honest happiness and a stern
and manly sense of the right and proper thing for him to do. At last
he spoke.

"Mrs. Burnham," he said, in a sharp voice, "I can't, I can't!"

A look of surprise and pain came into the lady's face.

"Why, Ralph!" she exclaimed, "I thought,--I hoped you would be glad
to go. We would be very good to you; we would try to make you very
happy."

"An' I'll give you half of ev'ry nice thing I have!" spoke out the
girl, impetuously.

"I know, I know!" responded Ralph, "it'd be beautiful, just as it was
that Sunday I was there; an' I'd like to go,--you don't know how I'd
like to,--but I can't! Oh, no! I can't!"

Bachelor Billy was leaning forward, watching the boy intently,
surprise and admiration marking his soiled face.

"Then, why will you not come?" persisted the lady. "What reason have
you, if we can all be happy?"

Ralph stood for a moment in deep thought.

"I can't tell you," he said, at last. "I don't know just how to
explain it, but, some way, after all this that's happened, it don't
seem to me as though I'd ought to go, it don't seem to me as though
it'd be just right; as though it'd be a-doin' what--what--Oh! I can't
tell you. I can't explain it to you so'st you can understand. But I
mus'n't go; indeed, I mus'n't!"

At last, however, the lady understood and was silent.

She had not thought before how this proposal, well meant though it
was, might jar upon the lad's fine sense of honor and of the fitness
of things. She had not realized, until this moment, how a boy,
possessing so delicate a nature as Ralph's, might feel to take a
position now, to which a court and jury had declared he was not
entitled, to which he himself had acknowledged, and to which every one
knew he was not entitled.

He had tried to gain the place by virtue of a suit at law, he had
called upon the highest power in the land to put him into it, and his
effort had not only ended in ignominious failure, but had left him
stamped as a lineal descendant of one whose very name had become a
by-word and a reproach. How could he now, with the remotest sense of
honor or of pride, step into the place that should have been occupied
by Robert Burnham's son?

The lady could not urge him any more, knowing what his thought was.
She could only say:--

"Yes, Ralph; I understand. I am very, very sorry. I love you just the
same, but I cannot ask you now to go with me. I can only hope for a
day when we shall know, and the world shall know, that you are my son.
You would come to me then, would you not, Ralph?"

"Indeed I would!" he said. "Oh, _indeed_ I would!"

She drew his head down upon her bosom and kissed his lips again
and again; then she released him and rose to go. She inquired very
tenderly about his health, about his work, about his likes in
the way of books and food and clothing; and one could see that,
notwithstanding her resolution to leave Ralph with Bachelor Billy, she
still had many plans in her mind, for his comfort and happiness. She
charged Billy to be very careful of the boy; she kissed him again, and
Mildred kissed him, and then they stepped into the carriage and the
restless brown horses drew them rapidly away.




CHAPTER XX.

THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT.


A boy with Ralph's natural courage and spirit could not remain long
despondent. Ambition came back to him with the summer days, and hope
found an abiding place in his breast once more. It was not, indeed,
the old ambition to be rich and learned and famous, nor the hope that
he should yet be surrounded with beauty in a home made bright by a
mother's love.

All these things, though they had not faded from his mind, were
thought of only as sweet dreams of the past. His future, as he looked
out upon it now, did not hold them; yet it was a future that had in
it no disappointment, no desolation, no despair. The path before him
was a very humble one, indeed, but he resolved to tread it royally.
Because the high places and the beautiful things of earth were not for
him was no reason why he should sit and mourn his fate in cheerless
inactivity. He determined to be up and doing, with the light and
energy that he had, looking constantly ahead for more. He knew that in
America there is always something better for the very humblest toiler
to anticipate, and that, with courage, hope, and high endeavor to
assist him, he is sure to reach his goal.

Ralph resolved, at any rate, to do all that lay in his power toward
the attainment of useful and honorable manhood. He did not set his
mark so very high, but the way to it was rough with obstacles and
bordered with daily toil.

His plan was, simply to find better places for himself about the
breaker and the mines, as his age and strength would permit, and so to
do his work as to gain the confidence of his employers. When he should
become old enough, he would be a miner's laborer, then a miner, and
perhaps, eventually, he might rise to the position of a mine boss.
He would improve his leisure with self study, get what schooling he
could, and, finally, as the height of his ambition, he hoped that,
some day, he might become a mining engineer; able to sink shafts, to
direct headings, to map out the devious courses of the mine, or to
build great breakers like the one in which he spent his days.

Having marked out his course he began to follow it. He labored
earnestly and with a will. The breaker boss said that no cleaner coal
was emptied into the cars at the loading place than that which came
down through Ralph's chute.

His plan was successful as it was bound to be, and it was not long
before a better place was offered to him. It was that of a driver boy
in the mine below the breaker. He accepted it; the wages were much
better than those he was now receiving, and it was a long step ahead
toward the end he had in view.

But the work was new and strange to him. He did not like it. He did
not think, at first, that he ever could like it. It was so dark in
the mines, so desolate, so lonely. He grew accustomed to the place,
however, as the days went by, and then he began not to mind it so
much after all. He had more responsibility here, but the work was not
so tiresome and monotonous as it had been in the screen-room, and he
could be in motion all the time.

He went down the shaft every morning with a load of miners and
laborers, carrying his whip and his dinner-pail, and a lighted lamp
fastened to the front of his cap. When he reached the bottom of
the shaft he hurried to the inside plane, and up the slope to the
stables to get his mule. The mule's name was Jasper. Nobody knew why
he had been named Jasper, but when Ralph called him by that name he
always came to him. He was a very intelligent animal, but he had
an exceedingly bad habit of kicking.

It was Ralph's duty to take the mule from the stable, to fasten him
to a trip of empty mine cars, and to make him draw them to the little
cluster of chambers at the end of the branch that turned off from the
upper-level heading.

This was the farthest point from the shaft in the entire mine. The
distance from the head of the plane alone was more than a mile, and
it was from the head of the plane that Ralph took the cars. When he
reached the end of his route he left one car of his trip at the foot
of each chamber in which it was needed, gathered together into a new
trip the loaded cars that had been pushed down to the main track for
him, and started back with them to the head of the plane.

He usually made from eight to ten round trips a day; stopping at noon,
or thereabouts, to eat the dinner with which the Widow Maloney had
filled his pail. All the driver boys on that level gathered at the
head of the plane to eat their dinners, and, during the noon-hour,
the place was alive with shouts and songs and pranks and chattering
without limit. These boys were older, stronger, ruder than those in
the screen-room; but they were no less human and good-hearted; only
one needed to look beneath the rough exterior into their real natures.
There were eight of them who took trips in by Ralph's heading, but,
for the last half-mile of his route, he was the only driver boy. It
was a lonesome half-mile too, with no working chambers along it,
and Ralph was always glad when he reached the end of it. There was,
usually, plenty of life, though, up in the workings to which he
distributed his cars. One could look up from the air-way and see the
lights dancing in the darkness at the breast of every chamber. There
was always the sharp tap, tap of the drill, the noise of the sledge
falling heavily on the huge lumps of coal, sometimes a sudden rush of
air against one's face, followed by a dull report and crash that told
of the firing of a blast, and now and then a miner's laborer would
come running a loaded car down to the heading or go pushing an empty
one back up the chamber.

There was a laborer up in one of these chambers with whom Ralph had
formed quite a friendship. His name was Michael Conway. He was young
and strong-limbed, with huge hairy arms, a kind face, and a warm
heart.

He had promised to teach Ralph the art of breaking and loading coal.
He expected, he said, to have a chamber himself after a while, and
then he would take the boy on as a laborer. Indeed, Ralph had already
learned many things from him about the use of tools and the handling
of coal and the setting of props. But he did not often have an
opportunity to see Conway at work. The chamber in which the young man
was laboring was the longest one in the tier, and the loaded car was
usually at the foot of it when Ralph arrived with his trip of lights;
so that he had only to run the empty car up into the air-way a few
feet, take on the loaded one, and start back toward the plane.

But one afternoon, when he came up with his last trip for the day, he
found no load at the foot of Conway's chamber, and, after waiting a
few minutes, he went up to the face to investigate. He found Conway
there alone. The miner for whom the young man worked had fallen sick
and had gone out earlier than usual, so his laborer had finished
the blast at which the employer had been at work. It was a blast of
top-coal, and therefore it took longer to get it down and break it up.
This accounted for the delay.

"Come up here with ye," said Conway to the boy; "I want to show ye
something."

Ralph climbed up on to the shelf of coal at the breast of the chamber,
and the man, tearing away a few pieces of slate and a few handfuls of
dirt from a spot in the upper face, disclosed an opening in the wall
scarcely larger than one's head. A strong current of air coursed
through it, and when Conway put his lamp against it the flame was
extinguished in a moment.

"Where does it go to?" asked Ralph.

"I don't just know, but I think it must go somewhere into the workin's
from old No. 1 slope. The boss, he was in this mornin', and he said he
thought we must be a-gettin' perty close to them old chambers."

"Does anybody work in there?"

"Oh, bless ye, no! They robbed the pillars tin years ago an' more; I
doubt an ye could get through it at all now. It's one o' the oldest
places in the valley, I'm thinkin'. D'ye mind the old openin' ye can
see in the side-hill when ye're goin' up by Tom Ballard's to the
Dunmore road?"

"Yes, that's where Uncle Billy worked when he was a miner."

"Did he, thin! Well, that's where they wint in. It's a long way from
here though, I'm thinkin'."

"Awful strong wind goin' in there, ain't they?"

"Yes, I must block it up again, or it'll take all our air away."

"What'll your miner do to-morrow when he finds this place?"

"Oh, he'll have to get another chamber, I guess."

The man was fastening up the opening again with pieces of slate and
coal, and plastering it over with loose wet dirt.

"Well," said Ralph, "I'll have to go now. Jasper's gettin' in a hurry.
Don't you hear 'im?"

Conway helped the boy to push the loaded car down the chamber and
fasten it to his trip.

"I'll not be here long," said the man as he turned back into the
air-way, "I'll take this light in, an' pick things up a bit, an' quit.
Maybe I'll catch ye before ye get to the plane."

"All right! I'll go slow. Hurry up; everybody else has gone out, you
know."

After a moment Ralph heard Conway pushing the empty car up the
chamber, then he climbed up on his trip, took the reins, said,
"giddep" to Jasper, and they started on the long journey out. For
some reason it seemed longer than usual this night. But Ralph did not
urge his beast. He went slowly, hoping that Conway would overtake him
before he reached the plane.

He looked back frequently, but Mike, as every one called him, was not
yet in sight.

The last curve was reached, and, as the little trip rounded it,
Ralph's attention was attracted by a light which was being waved
rapidly in the distance ahead of him. Some one was shouting, too. He
stopped the mule, and held the cars back to listen, but the sound
was so broken by intervening pillars and openings that all he could
catch was: "Hurry! hurry--up!" He laid the whip on Jasper's back
energetically, and they went swiftly to the head of the plane. There
was no one there when he reached it, but half-way down the incline he
saw the light again, and up the broad, straight gallery came the cry
of danger distinctly to his ears.

"Hurry! hurry! The breaker's afire! The shaft's a-burnin'!--run!"

Instinctively Ralph unhitched the mule, dropped the trace-chains,
and ran down the long incline of the plane. He reached the foot,
rounded the curve, and came into sight of the bottom of the shaft.
A half-dozen or more of men and boys were there, crowding in toward
the carriage-way, with fear stamped on their soiled faces, looking
anxiously up for the descending carriage.

"Ralph, ye're lucky!" shouted some one to the boy as he stepped
breathless and excited into the group. "Ye're just in time for
the last carriage. It'll not come down but this once, again. It's
a-gettin' too hot up there to run it Ye're the last one from the end
chambers, too. Here, step closer!"

Then Ralph thought of Conway.

"Did Mike come out?" he asked. "Mike Conway?"

As he spoke a huge fire-brand fell from the shaft at their feet,
scattering sparks and throwing out smoke. The men drew back a little,
and no one answered Ralph's question.

"Has Mike Conway come out yet?" he repeated.

"Yes, long ago; didn't he, Jimmy?" replied some one, turning to the
footman.

"Mike Conway? no it was Mike Corcoran that went out. Is Conway back
yet?"

"He is!" exclaimed Ralph, "he is just a-comin'. I'll tell 'im to
hurry."

Another blazing stick fell as the lad darted out from among the men
and ran toward the foot of the plane.

"Come back, Ralph!" shouted some one, "come back; ye've no time; the
carriage is here!"

"Hold it a minute!" answered the boy, "just a minute; I'll see 'im on
the plane."

The carriage struck the floor of the mine heavily and threw a shower
of blazing fragments from its iron roof. At the same moment a man
appeared from a lower entrance and hurried toward the group.

"It's Conway!" cried some one; "he's come across by the sump. Ralph!
ho, Ralph!"

"Why, where's Ralph?" asked Conway, as he crowded on to the carriage.

"Gone to the plane to warn ye," was the answer."

"Wait the hoisting bell, then, till I get 'im."

But the carriage was already moving slowly upward.

"You can't do it!" shouted some one.

"Then I'll stay with 'im!" cried Conway, trying to push his way off.
"Ralph, oh, Ralph!"

But the man was held to his place by strong arms, and the next moment
the smoking, burning carriage was speeding up the shaft for the last
time.

Ralph reached the foot of the plane and looked up it, but he saw no
light in the darkness there. Before he had time to think what he
should do next, he heard a shout from the direction of the shaft:--

"Ralph! oh, Ralph!"

It was Conway's voice. He recognized it. He had often heard that voice
coming from the breast of Mike's chamber, in kindly greeting.

Quick as thought he turned on his heel and started back. He flew
around the curve like a shadow.

"Wait!" he cried, "wait a minute; I'm a-comin'!"

At the foot of the shaft there was a pile of blazing sticks, but there
was no carriage there, nor were there any men. He stumbled into the
very flames in his eagerness, and called wildly up the dark opening:

"Wait! come back! oh, wait!"

But the whirring, thumping noise of a falling body was the only answer
that came to him, and he darted back in time to escape destruction
from a huge flaming piece of timber that struck the floor of the mine
with a great noise, and sent out a perfect shower of sparks.

But they might send the carriage down again if he rang for it.

He ran across and seized the handle of the bell wire and pulled it
with all his might. The wire gave way somewhere above him and came
coiling down upon his head. He threw it from him and turned again
toward the opening of the shaft. Then the carriage did descend. It
came down the shaft for the last time in its brief existence, came
like a thunderbolt, struck the floor of the mine with a great shock
and--collapsed. It was just a mass of fragments covered by an iron
roof--that was all. On top of it fell a storm of blazing sticks and
timbers, filling up the space at the foot, piling a mass of wreckage
high into the narrow confines of the shaft.

Ralph retreated to the footman's bench, and sat there looking vaguely
at the burning heap and listening to the crash of falling bodies, and
the deep roar of the flames that coursed upward out of sight. He could
hardly realize the danger of his situation, it had all come upon him
so suddenly. He knew, however, that he was probably the only human
being in the mine, that the only way of escape was by the shaft, and
that that was blocked.

But he did not doubt for a moment that he would be rescued in time.
They would come down and get him, he knew, as soon as the shaft could
be cleared out. The crashing still continued, but it was not so loud
now, indicating, probably, that the burning wreckage had reached to a
great height in the shaft.

The rubbish at the foot had become so tightly wedged to the floor of
the mine that it had no chance to burn, and by and by the glow from
the burning wood was entirely extinguished, the sparks sputtered and
went out, and darkness settled slowly down again upon the place.

Ralph still sat there, because that was the spot nearest to where
human beings were, and that was the way of approach when they should
come to rescue him.

At last there was only the faint glimmer from his own little lamp
to light up the gloom, and the noises in the shaft had died almost
entirely away.

Then came a sense of loneliness and desolation to be added to his
fear. Silence and darkness are great promoters of despondency. But he
still hoped for the best.

After a time he became aware that he was sitting in an atmosphere
growing dense with smoke. The air current had become reversed, at
intervals, and had sent the smoke pouring out from among the charred
timbers in dense volumes. It choked the boy, and he was obliged to
move. Instinctively he made his way along the passage to which he was
most accustomed toward the foot of the plane.

Here he stopped and seated himself again, but he did not stay long.
The smoke soon reached him, surrounded him, and choked him again. He
walked slowly up the plane. When he reached the head he was tired and
his limbs were trembling. He went across to the bench by the wheel and
sat down on it. He thought to wait here until help should come.

He felt sure that he would be rescued; miners never did these things
by halves, and he knew that, sooner or later, he should leave the mine
alive. The most that he dreaded now was the waiting, the loneliness,
the darkness, the hunger perhaps, the suffering it might be, from
smoke and foul air.

In the darkness back of him he heard a noise. It sounded like heavy
irregular stepping. He was startled at first, but it soon occurred
to him that the sounds were made by the mule which he had left there
untied.

He was right. In another moment Jasper appeared with his head
stretched forward, sniffing the air curiously, and looking in a
frightened way at Ralph.

"Hello, Jasper!"

The boy spoke cheerily, because he was relieved from sudden fright,
and because he was glad to see in the mine a living being whom he
knew, even though it was only a mule.

The beast came forward and pushed his nose against Ralph's breast
as if seeking sympathy, and the boy put up his hand and rubbed the
animal's face.

"We're shut in, Jasper," he said, "the breaker's burned, an' things
afire have tumbled down the shaft an' we can't get out till they clean
it up an' come for us."

The mule raised his head and looked around him, then he rested his
nose against Ralph's shoulder again.

"We'll stay together, won't we, old fellow? We'll keep each other
company till they come for us. I'm glad I found you, Jasper; I'm very
glad."

He patted the beast's neck affectionately; then he removed the bridle
from his head, unbuckled the harness and slipped it down to the
ground, and tried to get the collar off; but it would not come. He
turned it and twisted it and pulled it, but he could not get it over
the animal's ears. He gave up trying at last, and after laying the
remainder of the harness up against the wheel-frame, he sat down on
the bench again.

Except the occasional quick stamping of Jasper's feet, there was no
sound, and Ralph sat for a long time immersed in thought.

The mule had been gazing contemplatively down the plane into the
darkness; finally he turned and faced toward the interior of the mine.
It was evident that he did not like the contaminated air that was
creeping up the slope. Ralph, too, soon felt the effect of it; it
made his head light and dizzy, and the smoke with which it was laden
brought back the choking sensation into his throat. He knew that he
must go farther in. He rose and went slowly along the heading, over
his accustomed route, until he reached a bench by a door that opened
into the air-way. Here he sat down again. He was tired and was
breathing heavily. A little exertion seemed to exhaust him so. He
could not quite understand it. He remembered when he had run all the
way from the plane to the north chambers with only a quickening of the
breath as the result. He was not familiar with the action of vitiated
air upon the system.

Jasper had followed him; so closely indeed that the beast's nose had
often touched the boy's shoulder as they walked.

Ralph's lamp seemed to weigh heavily on his head, and he unfastened it
from his cap and placed it on the bench beside him.

Then he fell to thinking again. He thought how anxious Bachelor Billy
would be about him, and how he would make every effort to accomplish
his rescue. He hoped that his Uncle Billy would be the first one to
reach him when the way was opened; that would be very pleasant for
them both.

Mrs. Burnham would be anxious about him too. He knew that she would;
she had been very kind to him of late, very kind indeed, and she came
often to see him.

Then the memory of Robert Burnham came back to him. He thought of the
way he looked and talked, of his kind manner and his gentle words. He
remembered how, long ago, he had resolved to strive toward the perfect
manhood exemplified in this man's life. He wondered if he had done the
best he could. The scenes and incidents of the day on which this good
man died recurred to him.

Why, it was at this very door that the little rescuing party had
turned off to go up into the easterly tier of chambers. Ralph had not
been up there since. He had often thought to go over again the route
taken on that day, but he had never found the time to do so. He had
time enough at his disposal now, however; why not make the trip up
there? it would be better than sitting here in idleness to wait for
some sign of rescue.

He arose and opened the door.

The mule made as if to follow him.

"You stay here, Jasper," he said, "I won't be gone long."

He shut the door in the animal's face and started off up the
side-heading. There had not been much travel on this road during the
last year. Most of the chambers in this part of the mine had been
worked out and abandoned.

As the boy passed on he recalled the incidents of the former journey.
He came to a place where the explosion at that time had blown out the
props and shaken down the roof until the passage was entirely blocked.

He remembered that they had turned there and had gone up into a
chamber to try to get in through the entrances. But they had found the
entrances all blocked, and the men had set to work to make an opening
through one of them. Ralph recalled the scene very distinctly. With
what desperate energy those men worked, tearing away the stones
and dirt with their hands in order to get in the sooner to their
unfortunate comrades.

He remembered that while they were doing this Robert Burnham had
seated himself on a fallen prop, had torn a leaf from his memorandum
book and had asked Ralph to hold his lamp near by, so that he could
see to write. He filled one side of the leaf, half of the other side,
folded it, addressed it, and placed it in the pocket of his vest. Then
he went up and directed the enlargement of the opening and crawled
through with the rest. Here was the entrance, and here was the
opening, just as it had been left. Ralph clambered through it and went
down to the fall. The piled-up rocks were before him, as he had seen
them that day. Nothing had been disturbed.

On the floor of the mine was something that attracted his attention.
He stooped and picked it up. It was a piece of paper.

There was writing on it in pencil, much faded now, but still distinct
enough to be read. He held his lamp to it and examined it more
closely. He could read writing very well, and this was written
plainly. He began to read it aloud:--

    "My DEAR WIFE,--I desire to supplement the letter sent to you from
    the office with this note written in the mine during a minute of
    waiting. I want to tell you that our Ralph is living; that he is
    here with me, standing this moment at my side."

The paper dropped from the boy's trembling fingers, and he stood for
a minute awe-struck and breathless. Then he picked up the note and
examined it again. It was the very one that Robert Burnham had written
on the day of his death. Ralph recognized it by the crossed lines of
red and blue marking the page into squares.

Without thinking that there might be any impropriety in doing so, he
continued to read the letter as fast as his wildly beating heart and
his eyes clouded with mist would let him.

    "I have not time to tell you why and how I know, but, believe me,
    Margaret, there is no mistake. He is Ralph, the slate-picker,
    of whom I told you, who lives with Bachelor Billy. If he should
    survive this trying journey, take him immediately and bring him up
    as our son; if he should die, give him proper burial. We have set
    out on a perilous undertaking and some of us may not live through
    it. I write this note in case I should not see you again. It will
    be found on my person. Do not allow any one to persuade you that
    this boy is not our son. I _know_ he is. I send love and greeting
    to you. I pray for God's mercy and blessing on you and on our
    children.

    "ROBERT."




CHAPTER XXI.

A PERILOUS PASSAGE.


For many minutes Ralph stood, like one in a dream, holding the slip of
paper tightly in his grasp. Then there came upon him, not suddenly,
but very gently and sweetly, as the morning sunlight breaks into a
western valley, the broad assurance that he was Robert Burnham's son.
Here was the declaration of that fact over the man's own signature.
That was enough; there was no need for him to question the writer's
sources of knowledge. Robert Burnham had been his ideal of truth and
honor; he would have believed his lightest word against the solemn
asseveration of thousands.

The flimsy lie coined by Rhyming Joe no longer had place in his mind.
He cared nothing now for the weakness of Sharpman, for the cunning of
Craft, for the verdict of the jury, for the judgment of the court; he
_knew_, at last, that he was Robert Burnham's son, and no power on
earth could have shaken that belief by the breadth of a single hair.

The scene on the descending carriage the day his father died came back
into his mind. He thought how the man had grasped his hands, crying,
in a voice deep and earnest with conviction:--

"Ralph! Ralph! I have found you!"

He had not understood it then; he knew now what it meant.

He raised the paper to the level of his eyes, and read, again and
again, the convincing words:--

    "Do not allow any one to persuade you that this boy is not our
    son. I _know_ he is."

Then Ralph felt again that honest pride in his blood and in his
name, and that high ambition to be worthy of his parentage, that had
inspired him in the days gone by. Again he looked forward into the
bright future, to the large fulfilment of all his hopes and desires,
to learning, culture, influence, the power to do good; above all, to
the sweetness of a life with his own mother, in the home where he had
spent one beautiful day.

He had drawn himself to his full height; every muscle was tense, his
head was erect with proud knowledge, high hope flashed from his eyes,
gladness dwelt in every feature of his face.

Then, suddenly, the light went out from his countenance, and the old
look of pain came back there.

His face had changed with his changing thought as it did that day
in the court-room at Wilkesbarre. The fact of his imprisonment had
returned into his mind, and for the moment it overcame him. He sat
down on a jutting rock to consider it. Of what use was it to be Robert
Burnham's son, with two hundred feet of solid rock between him and the
outside world, and the only passage through it blocked with burned and
broken timbers?

For a time despondency darkened his mind and despair sat heavily upon
him. He even wished that the joy of this new knowledge had not come to
him. It made the depth of his present misfortune seem so much greater.

But, after a while, he took heart again; courage came back to him; the
belief that he would be finally saved grew stronger in his mind; hope
burned up brightly in his breast, and the pride of parentage within
him filled him with ambition to do what lay in his power to accomplish
his own deliverance. It was little he could do, indeed, save to wait
with patience and in hope until outside help should come, but this
little, he resolved, should be done with a will, as befitted his birth
and position.

He folded the precious bit of paper he had found and fastened it in
his waistcoat pocket so that he should not lose it as Robert Burnham
had lost it; then he took up his lamp and went back through the
half-walled entrance, down the chamber and along the side-heading to
the air-way door where Jasper had been left.

There was a small can of oil sitting just inside the door-way. It
was the joint property of Ralph and the door-boy. It was fortunate,
he thought, that he had selected that place for it, as he was now in
great need of it. He filled his lamp, from which the oil had become
nearly exhausted, and then passed out through the door.

The mule was still there and uttered a hoarse sound of welcome when he
saw the boy.

"I found somethin' up there, Jasper," said Ralph, as he sat down
on the bench and began to pat the beast's neck again, "somethin'
wonderful; I wish I could tell you so you could understand it; it's
too bad you can't, Jasper; I know you'd be glad."

The mule seemed to recognize the pleasantness of the lad's voice and
to enjoy it, and for a long time Ralph sat there petting him and
talking to him.

Finally, he became aware that the air about him was growing to be very
bad. It made him feel sick and dizzy, and caused his heart to beat
rapidly.

He knew that he must go farther in. He thought, however, to make an
attempt to get out toward the shaft first. It might be that it had
grown clearer out there, it might be that the rescuers were already
working down toward him. He started rapidly down the heading, but
before he had gone half-way to the head of the plane, the smoke and
the foul air were so dense and deadly that he had to stop and to crawl
away from it on his hands and knees. He was greatly exhausted when he
reached the air-way door again, and he sat on the bench for a long
time to rest and to recover.

But he knew that it was dangerous to remain there now, and, taking the
can of oil with him, he started slowly up the heading. He did not know
how soon he should get back here, and when the oil in his lamp should
give out again he desired to be able to renew it.

The mule was following closely behind him. It was a great comfort,
too, to have a living being with him for company. He might have been
shut up here alone, and that would have been infinitely worse.

At the point where the branch leading to the new chambers left the
main heading, Ralph turned in, following his accustomed route.
It seemed to him that he ought to go to places with which he was
familiar.

He trudged along through the half-mile of gang-way that he had always
found so lonely when he was at work, stopping now and then to rest.
For, although he walked very slowly, he grew tired very easily. He
felt that he was not getting into a purer atmosphere either. The air
around him seemed to lack strength and vitality; and when, at last, he
reached the tier of chambers that it had been his duty to supply with
cars, he was suffering from dizziness, from shortness of breath, and
from rapid beating of the heart.

At the foot of Conway's chamber Ralph found a seat. He was very weak
and tired and his whole frame was in a tremor.

He began to recall all that he had heard and read about people being
suffocated in the mines; all the stories that had ever been told to
him about miners being shut in by accident and poisoned with foul air,
or rescued at the point of death. He knew that his own situation was
a critical one. He knew that, with the shaft crowded full of wreckage
and giving no passage to the air, the entire mine would eventually
become filled with poisonous gases. He knew that his present physical
condition was due to the foulness of the atmosphere he was breathing.
He felt that the situation was becoming rapidly more alarming. The
only question now was as to how long this vitiated air would support
life. Still, his courage did not give way. He had strong hope that he
would yet be rescued, and he struggled to hold fast to his hope.

The flame of his lamp burned round and dim, so dim that he could
scarcely see across the heading.

The mule came up to him and put out his nose to touch the boy's hand.

"I guess we may as well stay here. Jasper," he said. "This is the
furthest place away from the shaft, an' if we can't stan' it here we
can't stan' it nowhere."

The beast seemed to understand him, for he lay down then, with his
head resting on Ralph's knee. They remained for a long time in that
position, and Ralph listened anxiously for some sound from the
direction of the shaft. He began to think finally that it was foolish
to expect help as yet. No human being could get through the gas and
smoke to him. The mine would first need to be ventilated. But he felt
that the air was growing constantly more foul and heavy. His head was
aching, he labored greatly in breathing, and he seemed to be confused
and sleepy. He arose and tried to walk a little to keep awake. He knew
that sleep was dangerous. But he was too tired to walk and he soon
came back and sat down again by the mule.

"I'm a-tryin', Jasper," he said, "I'm a-tryin' my best to hold out;
but I'm afraid it ain't a-goin' to do much good; I can't see much
chance"--

He stopped suddenly. A thought had struck him. He seized his lamp
and oil-can and pushed ahead across the air-way and up into Conway's
chamber.

The mule arose with much difficulty and staggered weakly after him. A
new hope had arisen in the boy's heart, an inspiration toward life had
put strength into his limbs.

At the breast of the chamber he set down his lamp and can, climbed up
on to the shelf of coal, and began tearing out the slate and rubbish
from the little opening in the wall that Conway had that day shown to
him. If he could once get through into the old mine he knew that he
should find pure air and--life.

The opening was too small to admit his body, but that was nothing;
there were tools here, and he still had strength enough to work. He
dragged the drill up to the face but it was too heavy for him to
handle, and the stroke he was able to make with it was wholly without
effect. His work with the clumsy sledge was still less useful, and
before he had struck the third blow the instrument fell from his
nerveless hands.

He was exhausted by the effort and lay down on the bed of coal to
rest, gasping for breath.

He thought if only the air current would come from the other mine
into this what a blessing it would be; but, alas! the draft was the
other way. The poisoned air was being drawn swiftly into the old
mine, making a whistling noise as it crossed the sharp edges of
the aperture.

Ralph knew that very soon the strong current would bring in smoke and
fouler air, and he rose to make still another effort. He went down
and brought up the pick. It was worn and light and he could handle it
more easily. He began picking away at the edges of coal to enlarge the
opening. But the labor soon exhausted him, and he sat down with his
back against the aperture to intercept the passage of air while he
recovered his breath.

He was soon at work again. The hope of escape put energy into his weak
muscles.

Once, a block as large as his two hands broke away and fell down on
the other side. That was a great help. But he had to stop and rest
again. Indeed, after that he had very frequently to stop and rest.

The space was widening steadily, but very, very slowly.

After a time he threw down the pick and passed his head through the
opening, but it was not yet large enough to receive his body.

The air that was now coming up the chamber was very bad, and it was
blue with smoke, besides.

The boy bent to his task with renewed energy; but every blow exhausted
him, and he had to wait before striking another. He was chipping the
coal away, though, piece by piece, inch by inch.

By and by, by a stroke of rare good-fortune, a blow that drew the pick
from the lad's weak hands and sent it rattling down upon the other
side, loosened a large block at the top of the opening, and it fell
with a crash.

Now he could get through, and it would be none too soon either. He
dropped his oil-can down on the other side, then his lamp, and then,
after a single moment's rest, he crawled into the aperture, and
tumbled heavily to the floor of the old mine.

It was not a great fall; he fell from a height of only a few feet, but
in his exhausted condition it stunned him, and he lay for some minutes
in a state of unconsciousness.

The air was better in here, he was below the line of the poisoned
current, and he soon revived, sat up, picked up his lamp, and looked
around him.

He was evidently in a worked-out chamber. Over his head in the
side-wall was the opening through which he had fallen, and he knew
that the first thing to be done was to close it up and prevent the
entrance of any more foul air.

There was plenty of slate and of coal and of dirt near by, but he
could not reach up so high and work easily, and he had first to build
a platform against the wall, on which to stand.

It took a long time to do this, but when it was completed he stood up
on it to put the first stone in place.

On the other side of the opening he heard a hoarse sound of distress,
then a scrambling noise, and then Jasper's nose was pushed through
against his hand. The mule had stood patiently and watched Ralph while
he was at work, but when the boy disappeared he had become frightened,
and had clambered up on the shelf of coal at the face to try to follow
him. He was down on his knees now, with his head wedged into the
aperture, drawing in his breath with long, forced gasps, looking
piteously into the boy's face.

"Poor Jasper!" said Ralph, "poor fellow! I didn't think of you. I'd
get you in here too if I could."

He looked around him, as if contemplating the possibility of such a
scheme; but he knew that it could not be accomplished.

"I can't do it, Jasper," he said, rubbing the animal's face as he
spoke. "I can't do it. Don't you see the hole ain't big enough? an' I
couldn't never make it big enough for you, never."

But the look in Jasper's eyes was very beseeching, and he tried to
push his head in so that he might lay his nose against Ralph's breast.

The boy put his arms about the beast's neck.

"I can't do it, Jasper," he repeated, sobbing. "Don't you see I can't?
I wisht I could, oh, I wisht I could!"

The animal drew his head back. His position was uncomfortable, and it
choked him to stretch his neck out that way.

Ralph knew that he must proceed with the building of his wall. One
after another he laid up the pieces of slate and coal, chinking in
the crevices with dirt, keeping his head as much as possible out of
the foul current, stopping often to rest, talking affectionately to
Jasper, and trying, in a childish way, to console him.

At last his work was nearly completed, but the gruff sounds of
distress from the frightened mule had ceased. Ralph held his lamp up
out of the current, so that the light would fall through the little
opening, and looked in.

Jasper lay there on his side, his head resting on the coal bottom, a
long, convulsive respiration at intervals the only movement of his
body. He was unconscious, and dying. The boy drew back with tears in
his eyes and with sorrow at his heart. The beast had been his friend
and companion, not only in his daily toil, but here also, in the
loneliness and peril of the poisoned mine. For the time being, he
forgot his own misfortunes in his sympathy for Jasper. He put his face
once more to the opening.

"Good-by, Jasper!" he said, "good-by, old fellow! I couldn't help it,
you know, an'--an' it won't hurt you any more--good-by!"

He drew back his head, put the few remaining stones in place, chinked
the crevices with dirt and culm, and then, trembling and faint,
he fell to the floor of the old mine, and lay there, panting and
exhausted, for a long time in silent thought.

But it was not of himself he was thinking; it was of poor old Jasper,
dying on the other side of the black wall, deserted, barred out,
alone.

Finally it occurred to him that he should go to some other place in
the mine. The poisonous gases must still be entering through the
crevices of his imperfectly built and rudely plastered wall, and it
would be wise for him to get farther away. His oil had nearly burned
out again, and he refilled his lamp from the can. Then he arose and
went down the chamber.

It was a very long chamber. When he reached the foot of it he found
the entrances into the heading walled up, and he turned and went along
the air-way for a little distance, and then sat down to rest.

For the first time he noticed that he had cut his hands badly, on the
sharp pieces of coal he had been handling, and he felt that there was
a bruise on his side, doubtless made when he fell through the opening.

Hitherto he had not had a clear idea as to the course he should pursue
when he should have obtained entrance into the old mine. His principal
object had been to get into pure air.

Now, however, he began to consider the matter of his escape. It was
obvious that two methods were open to him. He could either try to make
his way out alone to the old slope near the Dunmore road, or he could
remain in the vicinity of Conway's chamber till help should reach him
from the Burnham mine.

But it might be many hours before assistance would come. The shaft
would have first to be cleared out, and that he knew would be no easy
matter. After that the mine would need to be ventilated before men
could make their way through it. All this could not be done in a day,
indeed it might take many days, and when they should finally come in
to search for him, they would not find him in the Burnham mine; he
would not be there.

If he could discover the way to the old slope, and the path should be
unobstructed, he would be in the open air within half an hour. In the
open air! The very thought of such a possibility decided the question
for him. And when he should reach the surface he would go straight
to Mrs. Burnham, straight to his mother, and place in her hands the
letter he had found. She would be glad to read it; she would be
very, very glad to know that Ralph was her son. Sitting there in the
darkness and the desolation he could almost see her look of great
delight, he could almost feel her kisses on his lips as she gave him
tender greeting. Oh! it would be beautiful, so beautiful!

But, then, there was Uncle Billy. He had come near to forgetting him.
He would go first to Uncle Billy, that would be better, and then they
would go together to his mother's house and would both enjoy her words
of welcome.

But if he was going he must be about it. It would not do to sit there
all night. All night? Ralph wondered what time it had come to be.
Whether hours or days had passed since his imprisonment he could
hardly tell.

He picked up his lamp and can and started on. At no great distance he
found an old door-way opening into the heading. He passed through it
and began to trudge along the narrow, winding passage. He had often to
stop and rest, he felt so very weak. A long time he walked, slowly,
unsteadily, but without much pain. Then, suddenly, he came to the end
of the heading. The black, solid wall faced him before he was hardly
aware of it. He had taken the wrong direction when he entered the
gallery, that was all. He had followed the heading in instead of out.
His journey had not been without its use, however, for it settled
definitely the course he ought to take to reach the slope, and that,
he thought, was a matter of no little importance.

He sat down for a few minutes to rest, and then started on his return.
It seemed to be taking so much more time to get back that he feared he
had passed the door-way by which he had entered the heading. But he
came to it at last and stopped there.

He began to feel hungry. He wondered why he had not thought to look
for some one's dinner pail, before he came over into the old mine. He
knew that his own still had fragments of food in it; he wished that
he had them now. But wishing was of no use, the only thing for him
to do was to push ahead toward the surface. When he should reach his
mother's house his craving would be satisfied with all that could
tempt the palate.

He started on again. The course of the heading was far from straight,
and his progress was very slow.

At last he came to a place where there had been a fall. They had
robbed the pillars till they had become too weak to support the roof,
and it had tumbled in.

Ralph turned back a little, crossed the air-way and went up into the
chambers, thinking to get around the area of the fall. He went a long
way up before he found an unblocked opening. Then, striking across
through the entrances, he came out again, suddenly, to a heading. He
thought it must have curved very rapidly to the right that he should
find it so soon, if it were the one he had been on before. But he
followed it as best he could, stopping very often to catch a few
moments of rest, finding even his light oil-can a heavy burden in his
hands, trying constantly to give strength to his heart and his limbs
by thoughts of the fond greeting that awaited him when once he should
escape from the gloomy passages of the mine.

The heading grew to be very devious. It wound here and there, with
entrances on both sides, it crossed chambers and turned corners till
the boy became so bewildered that he gave up trying to trace it. He
pushed on, however, through the openings that seemed most likely
to lead outward, looking for pathways and trackways, hungering,
thirsting, faint in both body and spirit, till he reached a solid wall
at the side of a long, broad chamber, and there he stopped to consider
which way to turn. He struck some object at his feet. It was a pick.
He looked up at the wall in front of him, and he saw in it the
filled-up entrance through which he had made his way from the Burnham
mine.

It came upon him like a blow, and he sank to the floor in sudden
despair.

This was worse than anything that had happened to him since the time
when he ran back to the shaft to find the carriage gone and its place
filled with firebrands. His journey had been such a mournful waste of
time, of energy, and of hopeful anticipation.

But, after a little, he began to think that it was not quite so bad as
it might have been after all. He had his lamp and his oil-can, and
he was in a place where the air was fit to breathe. That was better,
certainly, than to be lying on the other side of the wall with poor
old Jasper. He forced new courage into his heart, he whipped his
flagging spirits into fresh activity, and resolved to try once more to
find a passage to the outside world.

But he needed rest; that was apparent. He thought that if he could lie
down and be quiet and contented for fifteen or twenty minutes he would
gain strength and vigor enough to sustain him through a long journey.
He arose and moved up the chamber a little way, out of the current of
poisoned air that still sifted in through the crevices of his rudely
built wall.

Here he lay down on a place soft with culm, to take his contemplated
rest, and, before he was aware of it, sleep had descended on him,
overpowered him, and bound him fast. But it was a gracious victor. It
put away his sufferings from him; it allayed his hunger and assuaged
his thirst, it hid his loneliness and dispelled his fear, and it
brought sweet peace for a little time to his troubled mind. He was
alone and in peril, and far from the pure air and the bright sunlight
of the upper world; but the angel of sleep touched his eyelids just as
gently in the darkness of this dreadful place as though he had been
lying on beds of fragrant flowers, with white clouds or peaceful stars
above him to look upon his slumber.




CHAPTER XXII.

IN THE POWER OF DARKNESS.


Ralph slept, hour after hour. He dreamed, and moved his hands uneasily
at intervals, but still he slept. There were no noises there to
disturb him, and he had been very tired.

When he finally awoke the waking was as gentle as though he had been
lying on his own bed at home. He thought, at first, that he was at
home; and he wondered why it was so very dark. Then he remembered that
he was shut up in the mines. It was a cruel remembrance, but it was
a fact and he must make the best of it. While he slept his oil had
burned out, and he was in total darkness. He felt for his oil-can and
found it. Then he found his lamp, filled it by the sense of touch, and
lighted it. He always carried matches; they had done him good service
in the mines before this. He was very thankful too, that he had
thought to bring the oil-can. Without it he would have been long ago
in the power of darkness. He was still hungry, and thirsty too, very
thirsty now, indeed.

He arose and tried to walk, but he was so dizzy that he had to sit
down again. He felt better after a little, though, very much better
than before he had taken his rest. He wondered how long he had slept,
and what progress was being made, if any, toward his rescue. He went
down to the opening in the wall, and held his lamp up to it. Threads
of smoke were still curling in through the slate and culm, and the air
that crept in was very bad. Then, for a little time, Ralph sat there
and listened. He thought that possibly he might hear some distant
sound of rescue. But there was no noise; the silence was burdensome.

His thirst increased and he was hot and feverish.

At last he rose with the determination to carry out his plan of
searching for the old slope.

He knew that it would be worse than useless to stay here.

Besides, he hoped that he might find a stream of water on the way at
which to quench his thirst.

He thought of the letter in his pocket, and the desire grew strong
within him to read it again. He took it out, unfolded it, and held it
close to the light, but there seemed to be a mist before his eyes and
he could not distinguish the words. He knew what it contained, though,
and that was sufficient for him. He was Robert Burnham's son. His
father had been brave and manly; so would he be. His father would have
kept up heart and courage to the end, no matter what fate faced him.
He determined that the son should do no less. He would be worthy of
his parentage, he would do all that lay in his power to accomplish his
own safety; if he failed, the fault should not be his.

He folded and replaced the letter, picked up his oil-can, fastened
his lamp to his cap and started down the chamber. He felt that he was
strong with the strength of inspiration. It seemed to him, too, that
he was very light in body. It seemed almost as though he were treading
on air, and he thought that he was moving very fast.

In reality his steps were heavy and halting, and his way down the long
chamber was devious and erratic. His fancied strength and elasticity
were born of the fever in his blood.

He came to the heading. He knew, now, which way to turn, and he passed
down it in what he thought was rapid flight.

But here was the fall again. What was to be done now? His last attempt
to get around it had been disastrous. He would not try that plan
again. He would work his way through it this time and keep to the
heading.

He climbed slowly up over the fallen rock and coal and let himself
down upon the other side. But it took his breath away, this climbing,
and he had to wait there a little while to recover it. There was a
clear space before him, though, and he made good progress through it
till he came again to the fall.

In this place the rock was piled higher and it was more difficult of
ascent. But he clambered bravely up, dragging his oil-can with him;
then he moved out along the smooth, sloping surfaces of fallen slate,
keeping as close as possible to the wall of the heading, climbing
higher and higher, very slowly now, and with much labor, stopping
often to rest.

He came, at last, to a place where the space between the fallen rock
and the roof above it was so narrow that he could scarcely squeeze his
slender body through it. When he had done so he found himself on the
edge of a precipice, a place where a solid mass had fallen like a
wall, and had made a shelf so high that the feeble rays of Ralph's
lamp would not reach to the bottom of it. The boy crawled, trembling,
along the edge of this cliff, trying to find some place for descent.

The oil-can that he carried made his movements cumbersome; the surface
of the rock was smooth and hard to cling to; his limbs were weak and
his fingers nerveless.

He slipped, the can fell from his hand, he tried to recover it,
slipped further, made a desperate effort to save himself, failed, and
went toppling over into the darkness.

The height was not very great, and he was not seriously injured by
the fall; but it stunned him, and he lay for some time in a state of
unconsciousness.

When he came to himself, he knew what had happened and where he was.
He tried to rise, but the effort pained him and he lay back again. He
was in total darkness. His lamp had fallen from his cap and become
extinguished. He reached out to try and find it and his hand came in
contact with a little stream of water. The very touch of it refreshed
him. He rolled over, put his mouth to it and drank. It was running
water, cool and delicious, and he was very, very thankful for it.

In the stream he found his lamp. The lid had flown open, the oil was
spilled out, and the water had entered. The can was not within reach
of him as he lay. He raised himself to his hands and knees and groped
around for it. He began to despair of ever finding it. It would be
terrible, he thought, to lose it now, and be left alone in the dark.

But at last he came upon it and picked it up. It was very light; he
felt for the plug, it was gone; he turned the can upside down, it was
empty.

For the moment his heart stopped beating; he could almost feel the
pallor in his face, he could almost see the look of horror in his own
eyes. From this time forth he would be in darkness. It was not enough
that he was weak, sick, lost and alone in the mysterious depths of
this old mine, but now darkness had come, thick darkness to crown his
suffering and bar his path to freedom. His self-imposed courage had
almost given way. It required matchless bravery to face a peril such
as this without a murmur, and still find room for hope.

But he did his best. He fought valiantly against despair.

It occurred to him that he still had matches. He drew them from his
pocket and counted them. There were seven.

He poured the water from the chamber of his lamp and pulled out the
wick and pressed it. He thought that possibly he might make it burn a
little longer without oil. He selected one of the matches and struck
it against the rock at his side. It did not light. The rock was wet
and the match was spoiled.

The next one he lighted by drawing it swiftly across the sleeve of his
jacket. But the light was wasted; the cotton wick was still too wet to
ignite.

There was nothing left to him, then, save the matches, and they would
not light him far. But it was better to go even a little way than to
remain here.

He rose to his feet and struck a match on his sleeve, but it broke
short off at the head, and the sputtering sulphur dropped into the
stream and was quenched. He struck another, this time with success.
He saw the heading; the way was clear; and he started on, holding one
hand out before him, touching at frequent intervals the lower wall of
the passage with the other.

But his side pained him when he tried to walk: he had struck it
heavily in his last fall; and he had to stop in order to relieve it.
After a time he arose again, but in the intense darkness and with that
strange confusion in his brain, he could not tell in which direction
to go.

He lighted another match; it sputtered and went out.

He had two matches left. To what better use could he put them than to
make them light him as far as possible on his way? He struck one of
them, it blazed up, and with it he lighted the stick of the imperfect
one which he had not thrown away. He held them up before him, and,
shielding the blaze with his hand, he moved rapidly down the narrow
passage.

He knew that he was still in the heading and that if he could but
follow it he would, in time, reach the slope.

His light soon gave out; darkness surrounded him again, but he kept
on.

He moved from side to side of the passage, feeling his way.

His journey was slow, very slow and painful, but it was better to keep
going, he knew that.

He had one match left but he dared not light it. He wanted to reserve
that for a case of greater need.

The emergency that called for its use soon arose.

The heading seemed to have grown suddenly wider. He went back and
forth across it and touched all the pillars carefully. The way was
divided. One branch of the gallery bore to the right and another to
the left.

Straight ahead was a solid wall. Ralph did not know which passage to
enter. To go into one would be to go still farther and deeper into the
recesses of the old mine; to go into the other would be to go toward
the slope, toward the outer world, toward his mother and his home.

If he could only see he could choose more wisely.

Had the necessity arisen for the use of his last match?

He hesitated. He sat down to rest and to consider the question. It
was hard to think, though, with all that whirling and buzzing in his
fever-stricken brain.

Then a scheme entered his mind, a brilliant scheme by which he
should get more light. He resolved to act upon it without delay. He
transferred everything from the pockets of his jacket to those of his
waistcoat. Then he removed this outer garment, tore a portion of it
into strips, and held it in one hand while he made ready to light his
last match. He held his breath while he struck it.

It did not light.

He waited a minute to think. Then he struck it again, this time with
success. He touched it to the rags of his coat, and the oil-soaked
cloth flashed brightly into flame. He held the blazing jacket in his
hand, looked around him for one moment to choose his way, and then
began to run.

It was a travesty on running, to be sure, but it was the best he could
do. He staggered and stumbled; he lurched rapidly ahead for a little
space and then moved with halting steps. His limbs grew weak, his
breath came in gasps, and the pain in his side was cutting him like a
knife.

But he thought he was going very rapidly. He could see so nicely too.
The flames, fanned by the motion, curled up and licked his hand and
wrist, but he scarcely knew it.

Then his foot struck some obstacle in the way and he fell. For a
moment he lay there panting and helpless, while the burning cloth,
thrown from him in his fall, lighted up the narrow space around him
till it grew as clear as day. But all this splendid glow should not be
wasted; it would never do; he must make it light him on his journey
till the last ray was gone.

He staggered to his feet again and ran on into the ever growing
darkness. Behind him the flames flared, flickered, and died slowly
out, and when the last vestige of light was wholly gone he sank,
utterly exhausted, to the floor of the mine, and thick darkness
settled on him like a pall.

A long time he lay there wondering vaguely at his strange misfortunes.
The fever in his blood was running high, and, instead of harboring
sober thought, his mind was filled with fleeting fancies.

It was very still here, so still that he thought he heard the
throbbing in his head. He wondered if it could be heard by others who
might thus find where he lay.

Then fear came on him, fear like an icy hand clutching at his breast,
fear that would not let him rest, but that brought him to his feet
again and urged him onward.

To die, that was nothing; he could die if need be; but to be shut up
here alone, with strange and unseen things hovering about him in the
blackness, that was quite beyond endurance. He was striving to get
away from them. He had not much thought, now, which way he went, he
cared little for direction, he wished only to keep in motion.

He had to stop at times to get breath and to rest his limbs, they
ached so. But, whenever he stood still or sat down to rest, the
darkness seemed to close in upon him and around him so tightly as to
give him pain. He would not have cared so much for that, though, if it
had not been filled with strange creatures who crept close to him to
hear the throbbing in his head. He could not bear that; it compelled
him to move on.

He went a long way like this, with his hands before him, stumbling,
falling, rising again, stopping for a moment's rest, moaning as he
walked, crying softly to himself at times like the sick child that he
was.

Once he felt that he was going down an inclined way, like a long
chamber; there had been no prop or pillar on either side of him for
many minutes. Finally, his feet touched water. It grew to be ankle
deep. He pushed on, and it reached half-way to his knees. This would
never do. He turned in his tracks to retreat, just saved himself
from falling, and then climbed slowly back up the long slope of the
chamber.

When he had reached the top of it he thought he would lie down and try
not to move again, he was so very tired and sick.

In the midst of all his fancies he realized his danger. He knew that
death had ceased to be a possibility for him, and had come to be more
than probable.

He felt that it would be very sad indeed to die in this way, alone,
in the dark, in the galleries of this old mine; it was not the way
Robert Burnham's son should have died. It was not that he minded
death so much; he would not have greatly cared for that, if he could
only have died in his mother's arms, with the sweet sunlight and the
fresh air and the perfume of flowers in the room. That, he thought,
would have been beautiful, very beautiful indeed. But this, this was
so different.

"It is very sad," he said; "poor Ralph, poor boy."

He was talking to himself. It seemed to him that he was some one else,
some one who stood by trying to pity and console this child who was
dying here alone in the awful darkness.

"It's hard on you," he said, "I know it's hard on you, an' you've
just got to where life'd be worth a good deal to you too. You had
your bitter an' the sweet was just a-comin'; but never mind, my boy,
never mind; your Uncle Billy says 'at heaven's a great sight better
place 'an any you could ever find on earth. An', then, you're Robert
Burnham's son, you know, an' that's a good deal to think of;
you're--Robert Burnham's--son."

For a long time after this there was silence, and the boy did not
move. Then fear came back to him. He thought that the darkness was
closing in again upon him, that it pressed him from above, from right
and left, that it crowded back his breath and crushed his body. He
felt that he must escape from it.

He was too weak now to rise and walk, so he lifted himself to his
hands and knees and began to move away like a creeping child.

There were many obstacles in his path, some of them imaginary, most of
them real. There were old mine caps, piles of dirt, pieces of slate,
and great lumps of coal on' which he cut his hands and bruised his
knees. But he met and passed them all. He was intent only on getting
away from these dreadful powers of darkness, they tortured him so.

And he did get away from them. He came to a place where the space
about him seemed large, where the floor was smooth, and the air so
clear and pure that he could breathe it freely.

Utter darkness, indeed, surrounded him, but it was a darkness not
peopled with evil beings; it was more like the sweet darkness of a
summer night, with the fragrance of dew-wet flowers in the air.

He leaned against a pillar to rest. He thought to stay here until the
end should come.

He was not suffering from any pain now; he was glad of that. And he
should die peacefully, leaving no wrong behind him, with no guilt
upon his conscience, no sin upon his soul. He was glad of that too.
He wondered if they would know, when they found his body, that he was
Robert Burnham's son. Suppose they should never find it out. Suppose
the days and months and years should pass away, and no one ever know
what high honor came to him while yet he lived on earth. That would be
sad, very, very sad; worse even than death itself. But there was a way
for him to make it known. He thought that some sweet voice was telling
him what to do.

He took from his waistcoat pocket the paper that declared his birth,
unfolded it once, pressed it to his lips once, took pins from the edge
of the collar of his vest, and pinned the letter fast upon the bosom
of his flannel shirt.

It took him a long time to do this in the darkness, his hands were so
very weak and tremulous, but, when it was done, he smoothed the paper
over carefully and was content.

"They'll know it now," he said gently to himself, "they'll surely know
it now. They'll no sooner find me here than they'll know who I am, an'
who my mother is, an' where to take me. It's just the same, just the
same as though I was alive myself to tell 'em."

He leaned back then, and closed his eyes and lay quite still. He felt
no pain from his cut and bleeding hands and knees, nor from his burned
wrist, nor from his bruised body. He was not hungry any more, nor
thirsty, nor suffering for breath. He was thinking, but he thought
only of pleasant things. He remembered no evil, neither any person who
had done him evil.

Off somewhere in the distance he could see blue sky, and the tips of
waves glancing in the sunlight, and green fields, and long stretches
of yellow grain. It seemed very real to him, so real that he wondered
if he was still lying there in the darkness. He opened his eyes to
see. Yes, it was dark, very dark.

The faint noise of dripping water came to his ears from somewhere in
the mine below him. It reminded him of a tiny waterfall he had once
seen under the shadow of a great rock on the bank of Roaring Brook.
It was where a little stream, like a silver thread, ran down across
the mossy covering of the edge and went drip, dripping into the
stone-walled basin far below. He wondered if the stream was running
there this day, if the tall rock-oak was bending yet above it, if the
birds sang there as gayly as they sang that happy day when first he
saw it.

For a little time he thought that he was indeed there. He found it
hard to make himself believe that he was still in the mine, alone. But
he was not alone; he knew that he was not alone. He felt that friends
were somewhere near him. They were staying back in the shadow so that
they should not disturb him. They would come to him soon, when--when
he should waken.

He did not move any more, his eyes were closed and he seemed to be
sleeping. His breath came gently, in long respirations. The precious
letter rose and fell with the slow heaving of his breast.

Down in the darkness the water dripped as placidly as pulses beat. For
the rest there was no sound, no motion.

Once the boy stirred a little and opened his eyes.

"Is that you, Uncle Billy?" he said. "Come an' sit down an' rest a
little, an' then we'll go out. I think I got lost or--or somethin'."

His Uncle Billy was not there. The darkness about him held no human
being save himself, but the vision was just as real to him, and the
coming was just as welcome as though it had all been true.

"Why, how strange you look, Uncle Billy; an' you're a-laughin' at
me--what! does she? Well, I'll go to her just as soon as I get out,
just as soon. How did she find it out? I was goin' to be the first to
tell her. I'm glad she knows it, though."

After a moment he continued:--

"Oh, no, Uncle Billy; I shouldn't ever do that, I couldn't. You've
been too good to me. You've been awful good to me, Uncle Billy--awful
good."

Again silence fell. Thick darkness, like a veil, wrapped the
unconscious child in its folds. Black walls and winding galleries
surrounded him, the "valley of the shadow" lay beyond him, but on his
breast he bore the declaration of his birth, and in his heart he felt
that "peace of God which passeth understanding."

Down in the darkness the water dripped; up in the earth's sky the
stars were out and the moon was shining.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A STROKE OF LIGHTNING.


It was a hot day at Burnham Breaker. The sun of midsummer beat
fiercely upon the long and sloping roofs and against the coal-black
sides of the giant building.

Down in the engine-room, where there was no air stirring, and the
vapor of steam hung heavily in the atmosphere, the heat was almost
insupportable.

The engineer, clothed lightly as he was, fairly dripped with
perspiration. The fireman, with face and neck like a lobster, went
out, at intervals, and plunged his hands and his head too into the
stream of cool water sent out from the mine by the laboring pumps.

Up in the screen-room, the boys were sweltering above their chutes,
choking with the thick dust, wondering if the afternoon would never be
at an end.

Bachelor Billy, pushing the cars out from the head, said to himself
that he was glad Ralph was no longer picking slate. It was better that
he should work in the mines. It was cool there in summer and warm in
winter, and it was altogether more comfortable for the boy than it
could be in the breaker; neither was it any more dangerous, in his
opinion, than it was among the wheels and rollers of the screen-room.
He had labored in the mines himself, until the rheumatism came and put
a stop to his under-ground toil. He mourned greatly the necessity that
compelled him to give up this kind of work. It is hard for a miner to
leave his pillars and his chambers, his drill and powder-can and fuse,
and to seek other occupation on the surface of the earth. The very
darkness and danger that surround him at his task hold him to it with
an unaccountable fascination.

But Bachelor Billy had a good place here at the breaker. It was not
hard work that he was doing. Robert Burnham had given him the position
ten years and more ago.

Even on this hot mid-summer day, the heat was less where he was than
in any other part of the building. A cool current came up the shaft
and kept the air stirring about the head, and the loaded mine-cars
rose to the platform, dripping cold water from their sides, and that
was very refreshing to the eye as well as to the touch.

It was well along in the afternoon that Billy, looking out to the
north-west, saw a dark cloud rising slowly above the horizon, and said
to Andy Gilgallon, his assistant, that he hoped it would not go away
without leaving some rain behind it.

Looking at it again, a few minutes later, he told Andy that he felt
sure there would be water enough to lay the dust, at any rate.

The cloud increased rapidly in size, rolling up the sky in dark
volumes, and emitting flashes of forked lightning in quick succession.

By and by the face of the sun was covered, and the deep rumbling of
the thunder was almost continuous.

There was a dead calm. Not even at the head of the shaft could a
particle of moving air be felt.

"Faith! I don't like the looks o' it, Billy," said Andy Gilgallon,
as a sharp flash cut the cloud surface from zenith to horizon, and a
burst of thunder followed that made the breaker tremble.

"No more do I," replied Bachelor Billy; "but we'll no' git scart afoor
we're hurt. It's no' likely the buildin' 'll be washit awa'."

"Thrue for ye! but this bit o' a steeple ud be a foine risting-place
for the lightnin's fut, an' a moighty hot fut it has, too--bad 'cess
to it!"

The man had been interrupted by another vivid flash and a sharp crack
of thunder.

The mountains to the north and west were now entirely hidden, and the
near hills were disappearing rapidly behind the on-coming storm of
rain. Already the first drops were rattling sharply on the breaker's
roof, and warning puffs of wind were beating gently against the side
of the shaft-tower.

"I'm glad Ralph's no' workin' i' the screen-room," said Bachelor
Billy, as he put up his hand to shield his eyes from the blinding
glare. "It'd be a fearfu' thing to ha' the breaker hit."

The fury of the storm was on them at last. It was as though the
heavens were shattered.

Billy looked out upon the dreadful onslaught of the elements with awe
and wonder on his face. His companion crouched against the timbers of
the shaft in terror.

Then--lightning struck the breaker.

People who sat in their houses a mile away started up in sudden fright
at the fierce flash and terrible report.

A man who was running toward the engine-room for shelter was blinded
and stunned by the glare and crash, and fell to his knees.

When he rose again and could use his eyes, he saw men and boys
crowding from the building out into the pouring rain. But the breaker
was on fire. Already the shaft-tower was wrapped in smoke and lighted
with flame. Some one in authority stood in the door of the engine-room
giving orders.

The carriage was descending the shaft. When it came up it was loaded
with men. It went down again, almost with the rapidity of lightning
itself.

The engineer was crowding his servant of iron and steel to the utmost.
The men of the next load that came up had hardly time to push
each other from the carriage before it darted down again into the
blackness.

The flames were creeping lower on the shaft timbers, and were rioting
among the screens.

The engine-room was hot and stifling. The engineer said he was
hoisting the last load that could be brought out.

When it reached the surface Conway leaped from among the men and stood
in the door of the engine-room.

"Let it down again!" he shouted. "Ralph is below yet, the boy. I'll go
down myself an' git 'im."

He heard a crash behind him, and he turned in time to see the iron
roof of the carriage disappear into the mouth of the shaft.

The burning frame-work at the head had ceased to support it, and it
had fallen down, dragging a mass of flaming timbers with it.

Conway went out into the rain and sat down and cried like a child.

Afterward, when the storm had partially subsided, a wagon was stopped
at the door of the office near the burning breaker, the limp body of
Bachelor Billy was brought out and placed in it, and it was driven
rapidly away. They had found him lying on the track at the head with
the flames creeping dangerously near. He was unconscious when they
came to him, he was unconscious still. They took him to his room at
Mrs. Maloney's cottage, and put him in his bed. The doctor came soon,
and under his vigorous treatment the man lost that deathly pallor
about his face, but he did not yet recover consciousness. The doctor
said he would come out of it in time, and went away to see to the
others who had been injured.

The men who had brought the invalid were gone, and Mrs. Maloney was
sitting by him alone.

The storm had passed, the sun had come out just long enough to bid
a reassuring "good-night" to the lately frightened dwellers on the
earth, and was now dropping down behind the western hills.

A carriage stopped at Bachelor Billy's door and a moment later Mrs.
Burnham knocked and entered.

"I heard that he had suffered from the stroke," she said, looking at
the still form on the bed, "and I came to see him. Is he better?"

"He ain't come out of it yet, ma'am," responded Mrs. Maloney, "but
the doctor's been a-rubbin' of im' an' a-givin' 'im stimmylants, an'
he says it's all right he'll be in the course of a few hours. Will ye
have a chair, ma'am?"

"Thank you. I'll sit here by him a while with the fan and relieve you.
Where is Ralph?"

"He's not come yet, ma'am."

"Why, Mrs. Maloney, are you sure? Is it possible that anything has
happened to him?"

"To shpake the trut', ma'am, I'm a bit worried about 'im meself. But
they said to me partic'ler, as how ivery man o' thim got out o' the
mine befoor the carriage fell. Most like he's a-watchin' the fire an'
doesn't know his Uncle Billy's hurted. Ye'll see 'im comin' quick
enough when he hears that, I'm thinkin'."

Mrs. Burnham had seated herself at the bedside with the fan in her
hand.

"I'll wait for him," she said; "perhaps he'll be here soon."

"I'll be lookin' afther the supper, thin," said Mrs. Maloney, "the
lad'll be hungry whin he comes," and she left the room.

Bachelor Billy lay very quiet, as if asleep, breathing regularly, his
face somewhat pale and his lips blue, but he had not the appearance of
one who is in danger.

A few minutes later there came a gentle knock at the street door. Mrs.
Burnham arose and opened it. Lawyer Goodlaw stood on the step. She
gave him as courteous greeting as though she had been under the roof
of her own mansion.

"I called at your home," he said, as he entered, "and, learning that
you had come here, I concluded to follow you."

He went up to the bed and looked at Bachelor Billy, bending over him
with kind scrutiny.

"I heard that the shock had affected him seriously," he said, "but he
does not appear to be greatly the worse for it; I think he'll come
through all right. He's an honest, warm-hearted man. I learned the
other day of a proposition that Sharpman made to him before the trial;
a tempting one to offer to a poor man, but he rejected it with scorn.
I'll tell you of it sometime; it shows forth the nobility of the man's
character."

Goodlaw had crossed the room and had taken a seat by the window.

"But I came to bring you news," he continued. "Our detective returned
this morning and presented a full report of his investigation and its
result. You will be pleased with it."

"Oh, Mr. Goodlaw! is Ralph--is Ralph--"

She was leaning toward him with clasped hands.

"Ralph is your son," he said.

She bowed her head, and her lips moved in silence. When she looked up,
there were tears in her eyes, but her face was radiant with happiness.

"Is there any, any doubt about it now?" she asked.

"None whatever," he replied.

"And what of Rhyming Joe's story?"

"It was a pure falsehood. He does not tire of telling how he swindled
the sharpest lawyer in Scranton out of a hundred and fifty dollars, by
a plausible lie. He takes much credit to himself for the successful
execution of so bold a scheme. But the money got him into trouble. He
had too much, he spent it too freely, and, as a consequence, he is
serving a short term of imprisonment in the Alleghany county jail for
some petty offence."

The tears would keep coming into the lady's eyes; but they were tears
of joy, not of sorrow.

"I have the detective's report here in writing," continued Goodlaw;
"I will give it to you that you may read it at your leisure. Craft's
story was true enough in its material parts, but a gigantic scheme was
based on it to rob both you and your son. The odium of that, however,
should rest where the expense of the venture rested, on Craft's
attorney. It is a matter for sincere congratulation that Ralph's
identity was not established by them at that time. He has been
delivered out of the hands of sharpers, and his property is wholly
saved to him.

"I learn that Craft is dying miserably in his wretched lodgings in
Philadelphia. With enough of ill-gotten gain to live on comfortably,
his miserly instincts are causing him to suffer for the very
necessities of life."

"I am sorry for him," said the lady; "very sorry."

"He is not deserving of your sympathy, madam; he treated your son with
great cruelty while he had him."

"But he saved Ralph's life."

"That is no doubt true, yet he stole the jewelry from the child's
person and kept him only for the sake of obtaining ransom.

"This reminds me that it is also true that he had an interview with
your husband on the day of Mr. Burnham's death. What took place
between them I cannot ascertain, but I have learned that afterward,
while the rescuing party were descending into the mine, your husband
recognized Ralph in a way that those who saw and heard him could not
at the time understand. Recent events, however, prove beyond a doubt
that your husband knew, on the day he died, that this boy was his
son."

Mrs. Burnham had been weeping silently.

"You are bringing me too much good and comforting news," she said; "I
am not quite able to bear it all, you see."

She was smiling through her tears, but a look of anxiety crossed her
face as she continued:--

"I am worried about Ralph. He has not yet come from the breaker."

She glanced up at the little clock on the shelf, and then went to look
out from the window.

The man on the bed moved and moaned, and she went back to him.

"Perhaps we had better send some one to look for the boy," said
Goodlaw. "I will go myself--"

He was interrupted by the opening of the door. Andy Gilgallon stood
on the threshold and looked in with amazement. He had not expected to
find the lady and the lawyer there.

"I come to see Bachelor Billy," he said. "Me an' him work togither at
the head. He got it worse nor I did. I'm over it, only I'm wake yit.
The likes o' it was niver seen afoor."

He looked curiously in at the bed where his comrade was lying.

"Come in," said Mrs. Burnham, "come in and look at him. He's not
conscious yet, but I think he'll soon come to himself."

The man entered the room, walking on the toes of his clumsy shoes.

"Have you seen anything of Ralph since the fire?" continued the lady.

Andy stopped and looked incredulously at his questioner.

"An' have ye not heard?" he asked.

"Heard what, Andy?" she replied, her face paling as she noted the
man's strange look.

"Why, they didn't get 'im out," he said. "It's in the mine he is,
sure, mum."

She stood for a moment in silence, her face as white as the wall
behind her. Then she clasped her hands tightly together and all the
muscles of her body grew rigid in the desperate effort to remain calm
for the sake of the unconscious man on the bed, for the sake of the
lost boy in the mine, for the sake of her own ability to think and to
act.

Goodlaw saw the struggle and rose from his chair.

"It's a dangerous imprisonment," he said, "but not, of necessity, a
fatal one."

She still stood staring silently at the messenger who had brought to
her these dreadful tidings.

"They're a-thryin' to get to the mouth o' the shaft now," said Andy.
"They're a-dhraggin' the timbers away; timbers wid the fire in 'em
yit. Ye'd be shtartled to see 'em, mum."

Then the lady spoke.

"I will go to the shaft," she said. Her carriage was already at the
door; she started toward it, throwing a light wrap across her arm as
she went.

Again the man on the bed moved and moaned.

"Stay with him," she said to Andy, "until I come myself, or send some
one to relieve you. See that he has everything he needs. He is my
charge."

Goodlaw helped her to the carriage.

"Will you come with me?" she asked.

He seated himself beside her and they were driven away. There was
little that he could say to comfort and assure her. The shock was too
recent. The situation of her son was too perilous.

Darkness was coming on when they reached the scene of the disaster;
one or two stars were already out, and the crescent of the new moon
was hanging in the west. Great clouds of white smoke were floating
away to the east, and where the breaker had that morning stood there
was now only a mass of charred and glowing ruins.

There were many people there, people who talked in low tones and
who looked on with solemn faces. But there were no outcries nor
lamentations; there was but one person, a boy, shut up in the mine,
and he was kin to no one there.

Up at the south-west corner of the pile they were throwing water on
the ruins. An engine had been brought up from the city and was pouring
a steady stream on the spot where the shaft was thought to be.

Many men were engaged in cutting and pulling away the burned timbers,
handling them while they were yet glowing with fire, so eager were
they to forward the work of rescue.

The superintendent of the mines was there, directing, encouraging,
and giving a helping hand. He saw Mrs. Burnham and came up to her
carriage.

"It was a very disastrous lightning stroke," he said; "the property of
the company is in ruins, but as yet no lives have been lost. There is
but one person in the mine, the boy Ralph; you both know him. We are
clearing away the wreckage from the mouth of the shaft as rapidly as
possible, in the hope that we may get down there in time to save his
life. Our people have directed me to spare no effort in this matter.
One life, even though it is that of an unknown boy, is not too poor a
thing for us to try, by every possible means, to save."

"That boy," said Goodlaw, "is Mrs. Burnham's son."

"Is it possible! Has he been identified, then, since the trial?"

"Fully, fully! My dear sir, I beg that you will do all that lies in
your power to save this life for your company's sake, then double your
effort for this lady's sake. She has no such fortune as this boy is to
her."

Mrs. Burnham had sat there pale-faced and eager-eyed. Now she spoke:--

"What is the prospect? What are the chances? Can you surely save him?
Tell me truly, Mr. Martin?"

"We cannot say certainly," replied the superintendent; "there are too
many factors in the problem of which we are yet ignorant. We do not
know how badly the shaft is choked up; we do not know the condition
of the air in the mine. To be frank with you, I think the chances are
against rescuing the boy alive. The mine soon fills with poisonous
gases when the air supply is cut off."

"Are you doing all that can be done?" she asked. "Will more men, more
money, more of anything, help you in your work?"

"We are doing all that can be done," he answered her. "The men are
working bravely. We need nothing."

"How soon will you be able to go down and begin the search?"

The man thought for a moment before replying.

"To-morrow," he said, uncertainly. "I think surely by to-morrow."

She sank back into the carriage-seat, appalled by the length of time
named. She had hoped that an hour or two at the farthest would enable
them to reach the bottom of the shaft.

"We will push the work to the utmost," said Martin, as he hurried
away. "Possibly we shall be able to get in sooner."

Goodlaw and Mrs. Burnham sat for a long time in silence, watching the
men at their labor. Word had been passed among the workers that the
missing boy was Mrs. Burnham's son, and their energetic efforts were
put forth now for her sake as well as for the lad's. For both mother
and son held warm places in the hearts of these toiling men.

The mouth of the shaft had been finally uncovered, a space cleared
around it, and the frame of a rude windlass erected. They were
preparing to remove the debris from the opening.

Conway came to the carriage, and, in a voice broken with emotion, told
the story of Ralph's heroic effort to save a human life at the risk of
his own. He had little hope, he said, that Ralph could live till they
should reach him; but he should be the first, he declared, to go into
the mine in search of the gallant boy.

At this recital Mrs. Burnham wept; she could restrain her tears no
longer.

At last Goodlaw persuaded her to leave the scene. He feared the effect
that continued gazing on it might have upon her delicate nerves.

The flashing of the lanterns, the huge torches lighting up the
darkness, the forms of men moving back and forth in the smoky
atmosphere, the muscular and mental energy exhibited, the deep
earnestness displayed,--all this made up a picture too dramatic and
appalling for one whose heart was in it to look at undismayed.

Arrangements were made for a messenger service to keep Mrs. Burnham
constantly informed of the progress of the work, and, with a
parting appeal to those in charge to hasten the hour of rescue, the
grief-stricken mother departed.

They drove first to Bachelor Billy's room. Andy was still there and
said he would remain during the night. He said that Billy had spoken
once or twice, apparently in his right mind, and was now sleeping
quietly.

Then Mrs. Burnham went to her home. She passed the long night in
sleepless anxiety, waiting for the messages from the mine, which
followed each other in slow succession. They brought to her no good
news. The work was going on; the opening was full with wreckage; the
air was very bad, even in the shaft. These were the tidings. It was
hardly possible, they wrote, that the boy could still be living.

Long before the last star had paled and faded in the western sky, or
the first rays of the morning sun had shot across the hills, despair
had taken in her heart the place of hope. She could only say: "Well,
he died as his father died, trying to save the lives of others. I have
two lost heroes now to mourn for and be proud of, instead of one."

But even yet there crossed her mind at times the thought that
possibly, possibly the one chance for life as against thousands and
thousands for death might fall to her boy; and the further and deeper
thought that the range of God's mercy was very wide, oh, very wide!




CHAPTER XXIV.

AT THE DAWN OF DAY.


It was not until very late on the morning following the storm that
Bachelor Billy came fully to his senses and realized what had
happened.

He was told that the breaker had been struck by lightning and burned
to the ground, and that his own illness was due to the severity of the
electric shock.

He asked where Ralph was, and they told him that Ralph was up at the
mine. They thought it wiser that he should not know the truth about
the boy just yet.

He thought to get up and dress himself, but he felt so weak and
bruised, and the strong metallic taste in his mouth nauseated him so,
that he yielded to the advice of those who were with him and lay down
again.

He looked up anxiously at the clock, at intervals, and seemed to be
impatient for the noon hour to arrive. He thought Ralph would come
then to his dinner. He wondered that the boy should go away and leave
him for so long a time alone in his illness.

The noon hour came, but Ralph did not come.

Andy Gilgallon returned and tried to divert the man's mind with
stories of the fire, but the attempt was in vain.

At one o'clock they made a pretence of sending Mrs. Maloney's little
girl to look for Ralph, in order to quiet Bachelor Billy's growing
apprehension.

But he remained very anxious and ill at ease. It struck him that there
was something peculiar about the conduct of the people who were with
him when Ralph's name was mentioned or his absence discussed. A
growing fear had taken possession of his mind that something was
wrong, and so terribly wrong that they dared not tell it to him.

When the clock struck two, he sat up in the bed and looked at Andy
Gilgallon with a sternness in his face that was seldom seen there.

"Andy," he said, "tha's summat ye're a-keepin' fra me. If aught's
happenit to the lad I want ye s'ould tell me. Be he hurt, be he dead,
I wull know it. Coom noo, oot wi' it, mon! D'ye hear me?"

Andy could not resist an appeal and a command like this. There was
something in the man's eyes, he said afterwards, that drew the truth
right out of him.

Bachelor Billy heard the story calmly, asked about the means being
taken for the boy's rescue, and then sat for a few moments in quiet
thought.

Finally he said: "Andy, gi' me ma clothes."

Andy did not dare to disobey him. He gave his clothes to him, and
helped him to dress.

The man was so sick and dizzy still that he could hardly stand. He
crossed the room, took his cap from its hook and put it on his head.

"An' where do yez be goin' to I donno?" inquired Andy, anxiously.

"I'm a-goin' to the breaker," replied Bachelor Billy.

"Ah, man! but ye're foolish. Ye'll be losin' your own life, I warrant,
an' ye'll be doin' no good to the boy."

But Billy had already started from the door.

"I might be able to do a bit toward savin' 'im," he said. "An' if he's
beyon' that, as mos' like he is, I s'ould want to get the lad's body
an' care for it mysel'. I kenned 'im best."

The two men were walking up through the narrow street of the village.

"I hear now that it's Mrs. Burnham's son he is," said Andy. "Lawyer
Goodlaw came yesterday wid the news."

Billy did not seem surprised.

He trudged on, saying simply:--

"Then he's worthy of his mither, the lad is, an' of his father. I'm
thankfu' that he's got some one at last, besides his Uncle Billy,
happen it's only to bury 'im."

The fresh, cool air seemed to have revived and strengthened the
invalid, and he went on at a more rapid pace. But he was weak enough
still. He wavered from side to side as he walked, and his face was
very pale.

When the two men reached the site of the burned breaker, they went
directly to the opening to learn the latest news concerning the
search. There was not much, however, for them to hear. The shaft was
entirely cleaned out and men had been down into the mine, but they had
not been able to get far from the foot, the air was so very bad.

A rough partition was being built now, down the entire depth of the
opening, a cover had been erected over the mouth of the shaft, and a
fan had been put up temporarily, to drive fresh air into the mine and
create an atmosphere there that would support life.

It was not long after the arrival of the two men before another party
of miners stepped into the bucket to be lowered into the mine.

Bachelor Billy asked to be allowed to go with them, but his request
was denied. They feared that, in his present condition, the foul air
below would be fatal to him.

The party could not go far from the foot of the shaft, no farther,
indeed, than the inside plane. But they found nothing, no sign
whatever of the missing boy.

Others went down afterward, and pushed the exploration farther, and
still others. It seemed probable that the lad, driven back by the
smoke and gas, had taken refuge in some remote portion of the mine;
and the portion that he would be apt to choose, they thought, would
be the portion with which he had been most familiar. They therefore
extended the search mainly in that direction.

But it was night before they reached those chambers which Ralph had
been accustomed to serve with cars. They looked them over thoroughly;
every entrance and every corner was scrutinized, but no trace of the
imprisoned boy could be found.

Bachelor Billy had not left the place. He had been the first to hear
the report of each returning squad, but his hope for the lad's safety
had disappeared long before the sun went down. When night came on he
went up on the bank and sat under the tree on the bench; the same
bench on which he had sat that day in May to listen to the story of
Ralph's temptation. His only anxiety now was that the child's body
should be brought speedily from the foul air, so that the face might
be kept as fair as possible for the mother's sake.

Conway, who had gone down into the mine with the first searching
party, had been overcome by the foul air, and had been brought out
insensible and taken to his home. But he had recovered, and was now
back again at the shaft. It seemed to him, he said, as though he was
compelled to return; as though there was something to be done here
that only he could do. He was sitting on the bench now with Bachelor
Billy, and they were discussing the lad's heroic sacrifice, and
wondering to what part of the mine he could have gone that the search
of half a day should fail to disclose his whereabouts.

A man who had just come out from the shaft, exhausted, was assisted up
the bank by two companions, and laid down on the grass near the bench,
in the moonlight, to breathe the fresh air that was stirring there.

After a little, he revived, and began to tell of the search.

"It's very strange," he said, "where the lad could have gone. We
thought to find him in the north tier, and we went up one chamber and
down the next, and looked into every entrance, but never a track of
him could we get."

He turned to Conway, who was standing by, and continued:--

"Up at the face o' your chamber we found a dead mule with his collar
on. The poor creature had gone there, no doubt, to find good air. He'd
climbed up on the very shelf o' coal at the breast to get the farthest
he could. Did ye ever hear the like?"

But Conway did not answer. A vague solution of the mystery of Ralph's
disappearance was dawning on him. He turned suddenly to the man, and
asked:--

"Did ye see the hole in the face when ye were there; a hole the size
o' your head walled up with stone-coal?"

"I took no note o' such a thing. What for had ye such a hole there,
an' where to?"

"Into the old mine," said Conway, earnestly, "into old No. 1. The boy
saw it yisterday. I told 'im where it wint. He's broke it in, and
crawled through, he has, I'll bet he has. Come on; we'll find 'im
yet!" and he started rapidly down the hill toward the mouth of the
shaft.

Bachelor Billy rose from the bench and stumbled slowly after him;
while the man who had told them about the mule lifted himself to his
elbows, and looked down on them in astonishment.

He could not quite understand what Conway meant.

The superintendent of the mine had gone. The foreman in charge of the
windlass and fan stood leaning against a post, with the light of a
torch flaring across his swarthy face.

"Let me down!" cried Conway, hastening to the opening. "I know where
the boy is; I can find 'im."

The man smiled. "It's against orders," he responded. "Wait till Martin
comes back an' the next gang goes in; then ye can go."

"But I say I know where the boy is. I can find 'im in half an hour.
Five minutes delay might cost 'im his life."--

The man looked at Conway in doubt and wonder; he was hesitating
between obedience and inclination.

Then Bachelor Billy spoke up, "Why, mon!" he exclaimed, "what's orders
when a life's at stake? We _mus'_ go doon, I tell ye! An ye hold us
back ye'll be guilty o' the lad's daith!"

His voice had a ring of earnestness in it that the man could not
resist. He moved to the windlass and told his helpers to lower the
bucket. Conway entreated Bachelor Billy not to go down, and the
foreman joined in the protest. They might as well have talked to
the stars.

"Why, men!" said Billy, "tha's a chance as how the lad's alive. An
that be so no ither body can do for 'im like me w'en he's foond. I
wull go doon, I tell ye; I _mus'_ go doon!"

He stepped carefully into the bucket, Conway leaped in after him, and
they were lowered away.

At the bottom of the shaft they found no one but the footman, whose
duty it was to remain steadily at his post. He listened somewhat
incredulously to their hasty explanations, he gave to them another
lighted lamp, and wished them good-luck as they started away into the
heading.

In spite of his determination and self-will, Bachelor Billy's strength
gave out before they had reached the head of the plane, and he was
obliged to stop and rest. Indeed, he was compelled often to do this
during the remainder of the journey, but he would not listen to any
suggestion that he should turn back. The air was still very impure,
although they could at times feel the fresh current from the shaft at
their backs.

They met no one. The searching parties were all south of the shaft
now, this part of the mine having been thoroughly examined.

By the time the two men had reached the foot of Conway's chamber,
they were nearly prostrated by the foul air they had been compelled
to breathe. Both were still feeble from recent illnesses and were
without the power to resist successfully the effects of the poisoned
atmosphere. They made their way up the chamber in silence, their limbs
unsteady, their heads swimming, their hearts beating violently. At the
breast Conway clambered up over the body of the mule and thrust his
lighted lamp against the walled-up aperture.

"He's gone through here!" he cried. "He's opened up the hole an' gone
through."

The next moment he was tearing away the blocks of slate and coal
with both hands. But his fingers were stiff and numb, and the work
progressed too slowly. Then he braced himself against the body of the
mule, pushed with his feet against Ralph's rude wall, and the next
moment it fell back into the old mine. He brushed away the bottom
stones and called to his companion.

"Come!" he said, "the way's clear an' we'll find better air in there."

But Bachelor Billy did not respond. He had fallen against the lower
face of coal, unconscious. Conway saw that he must do quick work.

He reached over, grasped the man by his shoulders, and with superhuman
effort drew him up to the shelf and across the body of the mule. Then,
creeping into the opening, he pulled the helpless man through with him
into the old mine, and dragged him up the chamber out of reach of the
poisoned current. He loosened his collar and chafed his wrists and the
better air in there did the rest.

Bachelor Billy soon returned to consciousness, and learned where he
was.

"That was fulish in me," he said, "to weaken like that; but I'm no'
used to that white damp. Gi' me a minute to catch ma breath an' I'll
go wi' ye."

Conway went down and walled up the opening again. When he came back
Bachelor Billy was on his feet, walking slowly down the chamber,
throwing the light of his lamp into the entrances on the way.

"Did he go far fra the openin,' thenk ye?" he asked. "Would he no'
most like stay near whaur he cam' through?"

Then he tried to lift up his voice and call to the boy; but he was too
weak, he could hardly have been heard across the chamber.

"Call 'im yoursel', Mike," he said; "I ha' no power i' my throat,
some way."

Conway called, loudly and repeatedly. There was no answer; the echoes
came rattling back to their ears, and that was all that they heard.

"Mayhap he's gone to the headin'," said Billy, "an" tried to get oot
by the auld slope."

"That's just what he's done," replied Conway, earnestly; "I told 'im
where the old openin' was; he's tried to get to it."

"Then we'll find 'im atween here an' there."

The two men had been moving slowly down the chamber. When they came to
the foot of it, they turned into the air-way, and from that they went
through the entrance into the heading. At this place the dirt on the
floor was soft and damp, and they saw in it the print of a boy's shoe.

"He's gone in," said Bachelor Billy, examining the foot-prints, "he's
gone in toward the face. I ken the place richt well, it's mony's the
time I ha' travelled it."

They hurried in along the heading, not stopping to look for other
tracks, but expecting to find the boy's body ahead of them at every
step they took.

When they reached the face, they turned and looked at each other in
surprise.

"He's no' here," said Billy.

"It's strange, too," replied Conway. "He couldn't 'a' got off o' the
headin'!"

He stooped and examined the floor of the passage carefully, holding
his lamp very low.

"Billy," he said, "I believe he's come in an' gone out again. Here's
tracks a-pointin' the other way."

"So he has, Mike, so he has; the puir lad!"

Bachelor Billy was thinking of the disappointment Ralph must have felt
when he saw the face of the heading before him, and knew that his
journey in had been in vain.

Already the two men had turned and were walking back.

At the point where they had entered the heading they found foot-prints
leading out toward the slope. They had not noticed them at first.

They followed them hastily, and came, as Ralph had come, to the fall.

"He's no' climbit it," said Billy. "He's gone up an' around it. The
lad knew eneuch aboot the mines for that."

They passed up into the chambers, but the floor was too dry to take
the impress of footsteps, and they found no trace of the boy.

When they reached the upper limit of the fall, Billy said:--

"We mus' turn sharp to the left here, or we'll no' get back. It's a
tarrible windin' headin'."

But Conway had discovered tracks, faintly discernible, leading across
into a passage used by men and mules to shorten the distance to the
inner workings.

"He's a-goin' stret back," said Billy, sorrowfully, as they slowly
followed these traces, "he's a-goin' stret back to whaur he cam'
through."

Surely enough the prints of the child's feet soon led the tired
searchers back to the opening from Conway's chamber.

They looked at each other in silent disappointment, and sat down for a
few moments to rest and to try to think.

Bachelor Billy was the first to rise to his feet.

"Mike," he said, "the lad's i' this auld mine. Be it soon or late I
s'all find 'im. I s'all search the place fra slope to headin'-face. I
s'all no' gae oot till I gae wi' the boy or wi' 'is body; what say ye?
wull ye help?"

Conway grasped the man's hand with a pressure that meant more than
words, and they started immediately to follow their last track back.
They passed up and down all the chambers in the tier till they reached
the point, at the upper limit of the fall, where Ralph had turned into
the foot-way. Their search had been a long and tiresome one and had
yielded to them no results.

They began to appreciate the fact that a thorough exploration of the
mine could not be made in a short time by two worn-out men. Billy
blamed himself for not having thought sooner to send for other and
fresher help.

"Ye mus' go now, Mike," he said. "Mayhap it'd take days wi' us twa
here alone, an' the lad's been a-wanderin' aroun' so."

But Conway demurred.

"You're the one to go," he said. "You can't stan' it in here much
longer, an' I can. You're here at the risk o' your life. Go on out
with ye an' get a bit o' the fresh air. I'll stay and hunt for the
boy till the new men comes."

But Bachelor Billy was in earnest.

"I canna do it," he said. "I would na get farther fra the lad for
warlds, an' him lost an' a-dyin' mayhap. I'll stan' it. Never ye fear
for me! Go on, Mike, go on quick!"

Conway turned reluctantly to go.

"Hold out for an hour," he shouted back, "an' we'll be with ye!"

Before the sound of his footsteps had died away, Billy had picked up
his lamp again and started down on the easterly side of the fall,
making little side excursions as he went, hunting for foot-prints on
the floor of the mine.

When he came to the heading, he turned to go back to the face of the
fall. It was but a few steps. There was a little stream of water
running down one side of the passage and he lay down by it to drink.
Half hidden in the stream he espied a miner's lamp. He reached for it
in sudden surprise. He saw that it had been lately in use. He started
to his feet and moved up closer to the fall, looking into the dark
places under the rock. His foot struck something; it was the oil-can.
He picked it up and examined it. There was blood on it; and both can
and lamp were empty. He looked up at the face of the fall and then
the truth came slowly into his mind. The boy had attempted to climb
through that wilderness of rock, had reached the precipice, had fallen
to the floor, had spilled his oil, and had wandered off into the
dreadful darkness, hurt and helpless.

"Oh, the puir lad!" he said, aloud. "Oh, the puir dear lad! He canna
be far fra here," he continued, "not far. Ralph! Ralph!"

He waited a moment in silence, but there was no answer. Then, hastily
examining the passage as he went, he hurried down along the heading.

At one place he found a burned match. The boy had gone this way, then.
He hastened on. He came to a point where two headings met, and stopped
in indecision. Which route had Ralph taken? He decided to try the one
that led to the slope. He went in that way, but he had not gone ten
rods before he came upon a little heap of charred rags in the middle
of the passage. He could not understand it at first; but he was not
long in discovering what it meant. Ralph had burned his jacket to
light up the path.

"Ah! the sufferin' child!" he murmured; "the dear sufferin' child!"

A little further along he saw a boy's cap lying in the way. He picked
it up and placed it in his bosom. He brushed away a tear or two
from his eyes and hastened on. It was no time to weep over the lad's
sufferings when he expected to find his body at every step he took.
But he went a long distance and saw no other sign of the boy's
passage. He came to a place at last where the dirt on the floor of the
heading was wet. He bent down and made careful scrutiny from side to
side, but there were no foot-prints there save his own. He had, in his
haste gone too far. He turned back with a desperate longing at his
heart. He knew that the lad must be somewhere near.

At one point, an unblocked entrance opened from the heading into the
air-way at an acute angle. He thought the boy might have turned into
that, and he passed up through it and so into the chambers. He stopped
at times to call Ralph's name, but no answer ever came. He wandered
back, finally, toward the fall, and down into the heading where
the burned coat was. After a few moments of rest, he started again,
examining every inch of the ground as he went. This time he found
where Ralph had turned off into the air-way. He traced his foot-prints
up through an entrance into the chambers and there they were again
lost. But he passed on through the open places, calling as he went,
and came finally to the sump near the foot of the slope. He held his
lamp high and looked out over the black surface of the water. Not far
away the roof came down to meet it. A dreadful apprehension entered
the man's mind. Perhaps Ralph had wandered unconsciously into this
black pool and been drowned. But that was too terrible; he would
not allow himself to think of it. He turned away, went back up the
chamber, and crossed over again to the air-way. Moving back a little
to search for foot-prints, he came to an old door-way and sat clown by
it to rest--yes, and to weep. He could no longer think of the torture
the child must have endured in his wanderings through the old mine and
keep the tears from his eyes. He almost hoped that death had long ago
come to the boy's relief.

"Oh, puir lad!" he sobbed, "puir, puir lad!"

Below him, in the darkness, he heard the drip of water from the roof.
Aside from that, the place was very, very still.

Then, for a moment, his heart stopped beating and he could not move.

He had heard a voice somewhere near him saying:--

"Good-night, Uncle Billy! If I wake first in the mornin', I'll call
you--good-night!"

It was what Ralph was used to saying when he went to bed at home. But
it was not Ralph's voice sounding through the darkness; it was only
the ghost of Ralph's voice.

In the next moment the man's strength returned to him; he seized his
lamp and leaped through the old door-way, and there at his feet lay
Ralph. The boy was living, breathing, talking.

Billy fell on his knees beside him and began to push the hair back
from his damp forehead, kissing it tenderly as he did so.

"Ralph," he said, "Ralph, lad, dinna ye see me? It's your Uncle Billy,
Ralph, your Uncle Billy."

The boy did not open his eyes, but his lips moved.

"Did you call me, Uncle Billy?" he asked. "Is it mornin'? Is it
daylight?"

"It'll soon be daylight, lad, verra soon noo, verra soon."

He had fastened his lamp in his cap, placed his arms gently under the
child's body, and lifted him to his breast. He stood for a moment
then, questioning with himself. But the slope was the nearest and the
way to it was the safest, and there was no time to wait. He started
down the air-way on his journey to the outer world, bearing his burden
as tenderly as a mother would have borne her babe, looking down at
times into the still face, letting the tears drop now and then on the
paper pinned to the boy's breast.

He stopped to rest after a little, holding the child on his knees as
he sat, and looking curiously at the letter, on which his tears had
fallen. He read it slowly by the light of his lamp, bending back the
fold to do so. He did not wonder at it. He knew what it meant and why
the boy had fastened it there.

"Ye s'all gae to her, lad," he said, "ye s'all gae to the mither. I'm
thankfu', verra thankfu', that the father kenned the truth afoor he
deed."

He raised his precious burden to his heart and began again his
journey.

The water in the old sump had risen and flowed across the heading and
the air-way and far up into the chambers, and he was compelled to go
around it. The way was long and devious; it was blocked and barred;
he had often to lay his burden down and make an opening through some
walled-up entrance to give them room for passage.

There were falls in his course, and he clambered across rough hills
of rock and squeezed through narrow openings; but every step brought
him nearer to the slope, and this thought nerved him to still greater
effort. Yet he could not wholly escape the water of the sump. He had
still to pass through it. It was cold and black. It came to his ankles
as he trudged along. By and by it reached to his knees. When it grew
to be waist-deep he lifted the child to his shoulder, steadied himself
against the side wall of the passage and pushed on. He slipped often,
he became dizzy at times, there were horrible moments when he thought
surely that the dark water would close over him and his precious
burden forever. But he came through it at last, dripping, gasping,
staggering on till he reached the foot of the old slope. There he sat
down to rest. From away back in the mine the echoing shouts of the
rescuing party came faintly to his ears. Conway had returned with
help. He tried to answer their call, but the cry stuck in his throat.

He knew that it would be folly for him to attempt to reach them; he
knew also that they would never trace his course across that dreadful
waste of water.

There was but one thing to do; he must go on, he must climb the slope.

He gave one look up the long incline, gathered his burden to his
breast and started upward. The slope was not a steep one. There were
many in that region that were steeper; but to a man in the last stage
of physical exhaustion, forcing his tired muscles and his pain-racked
body to carry him and his helpless charge up its slippery way, it was
little less than precipitous.

It was long too, very long, and in many places it was rough with
dislodged props and caps and fallen rock.

Many and many a time Bachelor Billy fell prone upon the sloping floor,
but, though he was powerless to save himself, though he met in his own
body the force of every blow, he always held the child out of harm's
way.

He began to wonder, at last, if he could ever get the lad to the
surface; if, within fifty rods of the blessed outer air, he would not
after all have to lie down and die with Ralph in his arms.

But as soon as such thoughts came to him he brought his tremendous
will and magnificent courage to the rescue, and arose and struggled
on.

The boy had not spoken since the journey began, nor had he opened his
eyes. He was still unconscious, but he was breathing; his heart was
beating, there was life in his body, and that was all that could be
asked or hoped for.

At last! oh, at last! The straight, steep, dreadful half mile of slope
was at Bachelor Billy's back. He stood out once more in the free and
open air. Under his feet were the grass and flowers and yielding soil;
over his head were the shining stars, now paling in the east; below
him lay the fair valley and the sleeping town clothed lightly in the
morning mist; and in his arms he still held the child who had thought
never again to draw breath under the starry sky or in the dewy air.
There came a faint breeze, laden with all the fragrance of the young
morning, and it swept Ralph's cheek so gently that the very sweetness
of it made his eyes to open.

He looked at the reddening east, at the setting stars still glowing in
the western sky, at the city church spires rising out of the sea of
silver mist far down below him, and then at last up into the dear old
face and the tear-wet eyes above him, and he said: "Uncle Billy, oh,
Uncle Billy! don't you think it's beautiful? I wish--I wish my mother
could see it."

"Aye, lad! she s'all look upon it wi' ye, mony's the sweet mornin'
yet, an it please the good God."

The effort to look and to speak had overpowered the weary child, and
he sank back again into unconsciousness.

Then began the journey home. Not to the old cottage; that was Ralph's
home no longer, but to the home of wealth and beauty now, to the
mansion yonder in the city where the mother was waiting for her boy.

Aye! the mother was waiting for her boy.

They had sent a messenger on horseback shortly after midnight to tell
her that the lad's tracks had been found in the old mine, that all the
men at hand had started in there to make the search more thorough,
that by daylight the child would be in her arms, that possibly, oh! by
the merest possibility, he might still be living.

So through the long hours she had waited, had waited and watched,
listening for a footfall in the street, for a step on the porch, for
a sound at her door; yet no one came. The darkness that lay upon the
earth seemed, also, to lie heavily on her spirit.

But now, at last, with the gray light that told of coming day, there
crept into her heart a hope, a confidence, a serenity of faith that
set it quite at rest.

She drew back the curtains and threw open the windows to let in the
morning air.

The sky above the eastern hilltops was aglow with crimson; in the
zenith it was like the color of the sweet pale rose.

She felt and knew that her boy was living and that very soon he would
be with her. Doubt had disappeared wholly from her mind. She threw
open the great hall doors that he might have a gracious and a fitting
welcome to his home.

She went up once more to the room in which he was to lie until health
should return to him, to see that it was ready to receive him.

When she again descended the stairs she saw the poor, bent figure of
a man, carrying a burden in his arms, staggering weakly up the walk,
laboring with awful effort at the steps of the porch. He was wet and
wretched, he was hatless and ragged, but on his soiled face was a
smile befitting one of God's angels.

He kissed his burden tenderly, and gave it into the lady's arms.

He said:--

"I've brought 'im to ye fra the edge o' daith. His title to your luve
is pinnit on 'is breast. I'm thankfu'--thankfu' for ye--both."

Bachelor Billy's work was done. He had lived to place his dearest
treasure in the safest place on earth; there was nothing left for him
to do. He sank down gently to the floor of the broad hall. The first
sunlight of the new day flashed its rays against the stained-glass
windows, and the windows caught them and laid them in coverlets of
blue and gold across the prostrate form of this humblest of earth's
heroes.

Under them was no stain visible, no mark of poverty, no line of pain;
he lay like a king in state with the cloth of gold across his body,
and a crown of gold upon his head; but his soul, his brave, pure,
noble soul, ah! that was looking down from the serene and lofty
heights of everlasting life.

       *       *       *       *       *

Yes, he lived, Ralph lived and became well and strong. He took his
name and his estates and chose his mother for his guardian; and life
for him was very, very beautiful.

The summer passed and the singing birds grew silent in the woods and
fields. The grain stood golden, and the ripe fruit dropped from vine
and tree. October came, with her frosty nights and smoky days. She
dashed the hill-sides with her red and yellow, and then she held her
veil of mist for the sun's rays to shine through, lest the gorgeous
coloring should daze the eyes of men.

On one of these most beautiful autumnal days, Ralph and his mother
went driving through the country roads, gathering golden-rod and
purple aster and the fleecy immortelle. When they returned they passed
through the cemetery gates and drove to one spot where art and nature
had combined to make pleasant to the living eye the resting-places
of the dead, and they laid their offering of fresh wild-flowers upon
the grave of one who had nobly lived and had not ignobly died. Above
the mound, a block of rugged granite rose, bearing on its face the
name and age and day of death of William Buckley, and also this
inscription:--

  "Having finished his work, by the will of God he fell asleep."

As they drove back toward the glowing west, toward the pink clouds
that lay above the mountain-tops behind which the sun had just now
disappeared, toward the bustling city and the dear, dear home, Ralph
lifted up his face and kissed his mother on her lips. But he did not
speak; the happiness and peace within him were too great for words.



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