"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' n.o.body 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 "n.o.body'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 ident.i.ty."

Then a new fear dawned upon Ralph's mind.