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 assist him only in case he is able to establish, beyond question, the boy's identity. 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 identity with Mrs. Burnham's son without endangering his cause.

"Can you remember," he said, "nothing about the lad's appearance that impressed you—now that you know the claim set up for hi—that impressed you with a sense of his relationship to you?"

"Nothing, sir, nothing whatever. The boy is a bright, frank, manly fellow; I have taken much interest in him from the first. His sorrow at the time of my husband's death touched me very deeply. I have been several times since then to look after his comfort and happiness. I saw and talked with him yesterday, as I have already told you. But he is not my son, sir, he is not my son."

"Pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a child's appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch."

"I appreciate that fact, but I recall no resemblance whatever. My baby had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a glow of health and happiness in his face. This lad is different, very different. There could not have been so great a change. Oh, no, sir! your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; I am sure he is not."

Sharpman was rejoiced. Everything was working now exactly according to his plan. He thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly.

"But my client," he said, "appears to be perfectly sincere in his belief. He will doubtless desire me to institute legal proceedings to recover for the boy his portion of Robert Burnham's estate."

"If you can recover it," she said, calmly, "I shall transfer it to the child most cheerfully. I take it, however, that you must first establish his identity as an heir?"

"Certainly."

"And do you think this can be done against my positive testimony?"

"Perhaps not; that remains to be seen. But I do not desire to contemplate such a contingency. My object, my sole object, is to obtain a harmonious settlement of this matter outside of the courts. That is why I am here in person. I had hoped that I might induce you to acknowledge the boy as your son, to agree to set off his interest in his father's estate, and to reimburse my client, to some extent, for his care and services. This is my only wish in the matter, I assure you."

"Why, as to that," she replied, "I am willing to recognize services performed for any one; and if this old man has rescued and cared for the boy, even though he is not my son—I have enough; if the man is in want, I will help him, I will give him money. But wait! did you say he had been cruel to the child? Then I withdraw my offer. I have no pity for the harsh task-masters of young children. Something to eat, to drink, to wear,—I will give him that,—nothing more."

"I am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge this boy as your son?" asked the lawyer, rising.

"With the evidence that I now have," she said, "I do. I should be glad to assist him; I have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy, and I love him. But I can do nothing more, sir,—nothing more."

"I regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit," said Sharpman, bowing himself toward the door. "I trust, I sincerely trust, that whatever I may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no bitterness of feeling on your part."

"Certainly not," she replied, standing in matronly dignity. "You could do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is Ralph Burnham. If I could believe that he is really my son, I would take him to my heart with inexpressible joy. Without that belief I should be false to my daughter's interest to compel her to share with a stranger not only her father's estate but also her mother's affection."

"Madam, I have the most profound respect for your conscience and your judgment. I trust that no meeting between us will be less pleasant than this one has been. I wish you good-morning!"

"Good-morning, sir!"

Sharpman bowed himself gracefully out, and walked briskly down the street, with a smile on his face. The execution of his scheme had met, thus far, with a success which he had hardly anticipated.

* * * * *

Every one about Burnham Breaker knew Bachelor Billy. No one ever knew any ill of him. He was simple and unlearned, but his heart was very large, and he was honest and manly to the marrow of his bones. He had no ties of family or of kin, but every one who knew him was his friend; every child who saw him smiled up instinctively into his face; he was a brother to all men. Gray spots were coming in his hair, his shoulders were bowed with toil, and his limbs were bent with disease, but the kind look never vanished from his rugged face, and the kind word never faltered on his lips. He went to his task at Burnham Breaker in the early morning, he toiled all day, and came home at night, happy and contented with his lot.

His work was at the head of the shaft, at the very topmost part of the towering breaker. When a mine car came up, loaded with coal, it was his duty to push it to the dump, some forty feet away, to tip it till the load ran out, and then to push it back to the waiting carriage. Michael Maloney had been Billy's assistant here, in other years; but, one day, Michael stepped back, inadvertently, into the open mouth of the shaft, and, three minutes later, his mangled remains were gathered up at the foot. Billy knew that Michael's widow was poor, with a family of small children to care for, so he came and hired from her a part of her cottage to live in, and took his meals with her, and paid her generously. To this house he had taken Ralph. It was not an elegant home, to be sure, but it was a home where no harsh word was spoken from year's end to year's end; and to Ralph, fresh from his dreadful life with Simon Craft, this was much, oh! very much, indeed. The boy was very fond of "Uncle Billy," as he called him, and the days and nights he spent with him were not unhappy ones. But since the day when Mrs. Burnham turned his face to hers, and kissed him on his lips, there had been a longing in his heart for something more; a longing which, at first, he could not quite define, but which grew and crystallized, at last, into a strong desire to merit and possess the fond affection, and to live in the sweet presence, of a kind and loving mother. He had always wanted a mother, ever since he could remember. The thought of one had always brought a picture of perfect happiness to his mind. But never, until now, had that want reached so great proportions. It had come to be the leading motive and ambition of his life. He yearned for mother-love and home affection, with an intensity as passionate, a desire as deep, as ever stirred within the heart of man. He had not revealed his longing to Bachelor Billy. He feared that he might think he was discontented and unhappy, and he would not have hurt his Uncle Billy's feelings for the world. So the summer days went by, and he kept his thought in this matter, as much as possible, to himself.

It had come to be the middle of September. There had been a three days rain, which had so freshened the parched grass and checked the fading of the leaves, that one might readily have thought the summer had returned to bring new foliage and flowers, and to deck the earth for still another season with its covering of green.

But it had cleared off cold.

"It'd be nice to have a fire to-night, Uncle Billy," said Ralph, as the two were walking home together in the twilight, from their day's work at the breaker.

"Wull, lad," was the reply, "ye ha' the wood choppit for it, ye can mak' un oop."

So, after supper, Ralph built a wood fire in the little rude grate, and Billy lighted his clay pipe, and they both drew their chairs up before the comfortable blaze, and watched it while they talked.

It was the first fire of the season, and they enjoyed it. It seemed to bring not only warmth but cheer.

"Ain't this nice, Uncle Billy?" said Ralph, after quite a long silence. "Seems kind o' home-like an' happy, don't it?"

"Ye're richt, lad! Gin a mon has a guid fire to sit to, an' a guid pipe o' 'bacca to pull awa' on, what more wull ye? eh, Ralph!"

"A comfortable room like this to stay in, Uncle Billy," replied the boy, looking around on the four bare walls, the uncarpeted floor, and the rude furniture of the room, all bright and glowing now in the light of the cheerful fire.

"Oh! the room's guid enook, guid enook," responded the man, without removing the pipe from his mouth.

"An' a nice bed, like ours, to sleep in."

"True for ye lad; tired bones rest well in a saft bed."

"An' plenty to eat, too, Uncle Billy; that's a good thing to have."

"Richt again, Ralph! richt again!" exclaimed Billy, enthusiastically, pushing the burning tobacco down in the bowl of his pipe. "An' the Widow Maloney, she do gi' us 'mazin' proper food, now, don't she? D'ye min' that opple pie we had for sooper, lad?"

"Yes, that was good," said Ralph, gazing absently into the fire. "They's only one thing more we need, Uncle Billy, an' that's somebody to love us. Not but what you an' me cares a good deal for each other," added Ralph, apprehensively, as the man puffed vigorously away at his pipe, "but that ain't it. I mean somebody, some woman, you know, 'at'd kiss us an' comfort us an' be nice to us that way."

Billy turned and gazed contemplatively at Ralph. "Been readin' some more o' them love-stories?" he asked, smiling behind a cloud of smoke.

"No, I ain't, an' I don't mean that kind. I mean your mother or your sister or your wife—it'd be jes' like as though you had a wife, you know, Uncle Billy."

Again, the man puffed savagely at his pipe before replying.

"Wull," he said at last, "na doot it'd be comfortin' to have a guid weef to care for ye; but they're an awfu' trooble, Ralph, women is,—an awfu' trooble."

"But you don't know, Uncle Billy; you ain't had no 'xperience."

"No more am I like to have. I'm a gittin' too auld now. I could na get me a weef an' I wanted one. Hoot, lad! think o' your Uncle Billy wi' a weef to look after; it's no' sensiba, no' sensiba," and the man took his pipe from his mouth and indulged in a hearty burst of laughter at the mental vision of himself in matrimonial chains.

"But then," persisted Ralph, "you'd have such a nice home, you know; an' somebody to look glad an' smile an' say nice things to you w'en you come home from work o' nights. Uncle Billy, I'd give a good deal if I had it, jes' to have a home like other boys has, an' mothers an' fathers an' sisters an' all that."

"Wull, lad, I've done the bes' I could for ye, I've—"

"Oh, Uncle Billy!" interrupted the boy, rising and laying his hand on the man's shoulder affectionately, "you know I don't mean that; I don't mean but what you've been awful good to me; jes' as good as any one ever could be; but it's sumpthin' dif'rent from that 'at I mean. I'm thinkin' about a home with pirty things in it, books, an' pictures, an' cushions, the way women fix 'em you know, an'—an' a mother; I want a mother very much; I think it'd be the mos' beautiful thing in the world to have a mother. You've had one, ain't you, Uncle Billy?"

The man's face had taken on a pleased expression when Ralph began with his expostulation, but, as the boy continued, the look changed into one of sadness.

"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' nobody 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 "nobody'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.