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."