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 a.s.sist him only in case he is able to establish, beyond question, the boy's ident.i.ty. 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 ident.i.ty with Mrs. Burnham's son without endangering his cause.