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 pa.s.sing 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.