"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 n.o.ble, 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 Sat.u.r.day 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."