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 identity."

Then a new fear dawned upon Ralph's mind.

"He ain't my grandfather!" he exclaimed. "Simon Craft ain't my grandfather. He wouldn't never 'a' whipped me the way he done if he'd a-been truly my grandfather."

Craft looked up at Sharpman with a little nod. The boy had identified him pretty plainly, and proved the truth of his story to that extent at least.

"Oh, no!" said the lawyer, "oh, no! Mr. Craft is not your grandfather; he doesn't claim to be. He has come here only to do you good. Now, be calm and reasonable, and listen to what we have to tell you, and, my word for it, you will go back to Billy Buckley's to-night with a heart as light as a feather. Now, you'll take my advice, and do that much, won't you?"

"Yes, I will," said Ralph, settling himself into his chair, "I will, if I can only find out about my father 'n' mother. But I won't go back to live with him; I won't never go back there!"

"Oh, no!" replied Sharpman, "we'll find a better home for you than Mr. Craft could ever give you. Now, if you will sit still and listen to us, and take our advice, we will tell you more things about yourself than you have ever thought of knowing. You want to hear them, don't you?"

"Well, yes," replied Ralph, smiling and rapidly regaining his composure; "yes, of course."

"I thought so. Now I want to ask you one or two questions. In the first place, what do you remember about yourself before you went to live with Mr. Craft?"

"I don't remember anything, sir,—not anything."

"Haven't you a faint recollection of having been in a big accident sometime; say, for instance, a railroad disaster?"

"No—I don't think I have. I think I must 'a' dreamed sumpthin' like that once, but I guess it never happened to me, or I'd 'member more about it."

"Well, Ralph, it did happen to you. You were riding in a railroad car with your father and mother, and the train went through a bridge. A good many people were killed, and a good many more were wounded; but you were saved. Do you know how?"

Ralph did not answer the question. His face had suddenly paled.

"Were my father an' mother killed?" he exclaimed.

"No, Ralph, they were not killed. They were injured, but they recovered in good time."

"Are they alive now? where are they?" asked the boy, rising suddenly from his chair.

"Be patient, Ralph! be patient! we will get to that in time. Be seated and answer my question. Do you know how you were saved?"

"No, sir; I don't."

"Well, my boy," said the lawyer, impressively, pointing his finger toward Craft, "there is the man who saved you. He was on the train. He rushed into the wreck at the risk of his life, and drew you from the car window. In another minute it would have been too late. He fell back into the river holding you in his arms, but he saved you from both fire and water. The effort and exposure of that night brought on the illness that has resulted in the permanent loss of his health, and left him in the condition in which you now see him."

Ralph looked earnestly at old Simon, who still sat, quiet and speechless, chuckling to himself, and wishing, in his heart, that he could tell a story as smoothly and impressively as Lawyer Sharpman.

"An' do I owe my life to him?" asked the boy. "Wouldn't I 'a' been saved if he hadn't 'a' saved me?"

"It is not at all probable," replied Sharpman. "The flames had already reached you, and your clothing was on fire when you were drawn from the car."

It was hard for Ralph to believe in any heroic or unselfish conduct on the part of Simon Craft; but as he felt the force of the story, and thought of the horrors of a death by fire, he began to relent toward the old man, and was ready to condone the harsh treatment that he had suffered at his hands.

"I'm sure I'm much obliged to 'im," he said, "I'm much obliged to 'im, even if he did use me very bad afterwards."

"But you must remember, Ralph, that Mr. Craft was very poor, and he was ill and irritable, and your high temper and stubborn ways annoyed him greatly. But he never ceased to have your best interests at heart, and he was in constant search of your parents, in order to restore you to them. Do you remember that he used often to be away from home?"

"Yes, sir, he used to go an' leave me with ole Sally."

"Well, he was away searching for your friends. He continued the search for five years, and at last he found your father and mother. He hurried back to Philadelphia to get you and bring you to your parents, as the best means of breaking to them the glad news; and when he reached his home, what do you suppose he found?"

Ralph smiled sheepishly, and said: "I 'xpect, maybe, I'd run away."

"Yes, my boy, you had. You had left his sheltering roof and his fostering care, without his knowledge or consent. Most men would have left you, then, to struggle on by yourself, as best you could; and would have rewarded your ingratitude by forgetfulness. Not so with Mr. Craft. He swallowed his pain and disappointment, and went out to search for you. He had your welfare too deeply at heart to neglect you, even then. His mind had been too long set on restoring you to loving parents and a happy home. After years of unremitting toil he found you, and is here to-night to act as your best and nearest friend."

Ralph had sat during this recital, with astonishment plainly depicted on his face. He could scarcely believe what he heard. The idea that Simon Craft could be kind or good to any one had never occurred to him before.

"I hope," he said, slowly, "I hope you'll forgive me, Gran'pa Simon, if I've thought wrong of you. I didn't know 'at you was a-doin' all that for me, an' I thought I was a-havin' a pirty hard time with you."

"Well," said Craft, speaking for the first time since Ralph's entrance. "Well, we won't say anything more about your bad behavior; it's all past and gone now, and I'm here to help you, not to scold you. I'm going to put you, now, in the way of getting back into your own home and family, if you'll let me. What do you say?"

"I'm sure that's very good in you, an' of course I'd like it. You couldn't do anything for me 'at I'd like better. I'm sorry if I've ever hurt your feelin's, but—"

"How do you think you would like to belong to a nice family, Ralph?" interrupted Sharpman.

"I think it'd make me very happy, sir."

"And have a home, a beautiful home, with books, pictures, horses, fine clothes, everything that wealth could furnish?"

"That'd be lovely, very lovely; but I don't quite 'xpect that, an' what I want most is a good mother, a real, nice, good mother. Haven't you got one for me? say, haven't you got one?"

The boy had risen to his feet and stood with clasped hands, gazing anxiously at Sharpman.

"Yes, my boy, yes," said the lawyer, "we've found a good mother for you, the best in the city of Scranton, and the sweetest little sister you ever saw. Now what do you think?"

"I think—I think 'at it's most too good to be true. But you wouldn't tell me a lie about it, would you? you wouldn't do that, would you?"

"Oh, no! Ralph; good lawyers never lie, and I'm a good lawyer."

"An' when can I see 'em? Can I go to 'em to-night? I don't b'lieve I can wait,—I don't b'lieve I can!"

"Ralph! Ralph! you promised to be quiet and reasonable. There, be seated and wait till you hear us through. There is something better yet for you to know. Now, who do you suppose your mother is? She lives in Scranton."

Ralph sat, for a moment, in stupid wonder, staring at Sharpman. Then a brilliant thought, borne on by instinct, impulse, strong desire, flashed like a ray of sunlight, into his mind, and he started to his feet again, exclaiming:—

"Mrs. Burnham! it can't be! oh, it can't be! tell me, is it Mrs.
Burnham?"

Craft and Sharpman exchanged quick glances of amazement, and the latter said, impressively:—

"Yes, Ralph, Mrs. Burnham is your mother."

The boy stood for another moment, as if lost in thought; then he cried out, suddenly: "And Mr. Burnham, he—he was my—my father!" and he sank back into his chair, with a sudden weakness in his limbs, and a mist before his eyes.

For many minutes no one spoke. Then Ralph asked, quietly,—

"Does—does she know?"

"Now, Ralph," said Sharpman, "now comes the strangest part of the story. Your mother believes you to be dead. She believes that you perished in the accident at Cherry Brook, and has mourned for you ever since the time of that disaster."

"Am I the boy—am I the Ralph she lost?"

"The very one, but we cannot make her think so. I went to her, myself, this morning, and told her that you are alive. I told her who you are, and all about you. She knows you, but she will not believe that you are her son. She wants better evidence than we can give to her, outside of the courts."

"An' won't she never believe it? won't she never take me?"

The boy's voice and look revealed the sudden clashing of his hope.

"Oh, yes, Ralph! in time; I do not doubt that in good time she will recognize you and take you to her home. She has so long believed you to be dead that it is hard for her to overcome the prejudice of that belief."

Then another fear came into the lad's mind.

"Are you sure," he cried out, "that I am her boy? are you sure I'm the right one?"

"Oh, yes!" said the lawyer, assuringly, "oh, yes! there's no mistake about that, there isn't the shadow of a doubt about that. We shall establish your identity beyond question; but we shall have to do it in the courts. When it is once done no one can prevent you from taking the name and the property to which you are entitled and using them as you see fit."

"But my mother!" said Ralph, anxiously, "my mother; she's all I care about; I don't want the property if I can't have her."

"And you shall have her, my boy. Mrs. Burnham said to me this morning, that, until your claim was duly proved in a court of law, she would have no legal right to accept you as her son; but that, when your identity is once established in that way, she will receive you into her home and her heart with much joy."

Ralph looked up with brightening eyes.

"Did she say that?" he exclaimed, "an' will she do it?"

"I have no doubt of it, none whatever."

"Then let's get at it right away," said the boy, impatiently, "it won't take very long, will it?"

"Oh! some little time; several months, may be; may be longer."

Ralph's face fell again.

"I can't wait that long!" he exclaimed; "I'll go to her myself; I'll tell her ev'rything; I'll beg her to take me. Do you think she would? do you?"

"Oh, Ralph! now be reasonable. That would never do. In the first place, it would be useless. She has seen you, she knows you; she says you are not her son; you can't prove it to her. Besides that, she has no legal right to take you as her son until the courts have passed upon the question of your identity. If she should attempt to do so, the other heirs of Robert Burnham would come in and contest your claim, and you would be in a far worse position to maintain your rights than you are now,—oh! far worse. No, you must not go to Mrs. Burnham, you must not go to her at all, until your sonship is fully established. You must keep cool, and wait patiently, or you will destroy every chance you have."

"Well, then, I'll try to; I'll try to wait an' do what you tell me to; what shall I do first?"

"The first thing to be done, Ralph, is to have the court appoint a guardian for you. You can't do anything for yourself, legally, you know, till you are twenty-one years old; and whatever action is taken in your behalf, must be taken by a guardian. It will be his place to establish your identity, to restore you to your mother, and to take care of your property. Now, who would you prefer to have act in that capacity?"

"Well, I don't know; there's Uncle Billy, he's the best friend I've got; wouldn't he do?"

"Do you mean William Buckley, with whom you are living?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why, he would do if he were rich, or had rich friends who would go on his bond. You see, the guardian would have to give a bond to the extent of a great many thousand dollars for the faithful performance of his duties. Could Buckley do that?"

"I'm afraid not, sir. He ain't rich, himself, an' I never heard of his havin' any rich friends."

"Whom else can you think of?"

"Won't Mrs. Burnham do?"

"Oh, no! it might be necessary for the guardian to bring suit against her."

"There ain't anybody else that I can think of," said Ralph, despairingly, after a moment's pause.

"Well, then, I don't know what we shall do. If you can't find some one who is able to qualify for this trust, we may as well stop right here. I guess we've done all we can for the boy, Mr. Craft?"

Craft nodded and smiled. He was enjoying the lawyer's diplomacy with
Ralph, exceedingly.

The lad was again in the depths of anxiety. He looked from one to the other of the men with appealing eyes.

"Ain't they some way to fix it, Mr. Sharpman?" he said. "Can't you do sumpthin' for me?"

"Oh! I couldn't be your guardian, my boy, the law wouldn't allow that; and Mr. Craft, here, hasn't money enough. I guess we'll have to give up the idea of restoring you to your mother, and let you go back to work in the breaker again."

"That'd be too bad," said the boy. "Don't do that; I couldn't stan' that—now. Can't you see my mother again, Mr. Sharpman, an' get her to take me—some way?"

"It can't be done, Ralph. There's only one way to fix it, and that is to get a guardian for you. If we can't do that, we may as well give it all up."

The anxiety and disappointment expressed in the lad's face was pitiful to look upon.

Then Craft spoke up.

"Ralph has been very unkind and ungrateful to me," he said, "but I have always been his best friend. I saved his life; and I've spent time and money and lost my health on his account. But I'm willing to do him a favor yet, if he thinks he can appreciate it. I'll act as his guardian and take care of his property for him, if he'll be a good boy and do as we tell him."

"I'll do everything I can," said Ralph, eagerly, "'ceptin' to go back an' live with you; everything—but Mr. Sharpman said you wasn't rich enough."

"No, I ain't," responded the old man; "and I don't know how to get around that difficulty, unless Mr. Sharpman will help me and be my bondsman."

Ralph turned his face pleadingly to Sharpman.

"Oh, now, Craft!" said the lawyer, smiling, and shaking his head, "don't you think you are presuming a little too much on my friendship? If you were the only one to be trusted, why, I might do it; but in this case I would have to depend on the boy as well, and there's no knowing how he would misbehave. According to your own story, he is a wilful, wrong-headed lad, who has already rewarded your kindness to him with base ingratitude. Oh, no! I could trust you, but not him."

"Mr. Sharpman!" pleaded the boy, "Mr. Sharpman, I never meant to be mean or unkind to Gran'pa Simon. I never knew't he saved my life, never. I thought he abused me, I did; I was sure of it; that's the reason I run away from 'im. But, you see, I'm older now; I'd be more reason'ble; I'll do anything you tell me to, Mr. Sharpman,—anything, if you'll only fix it for Gran'pa Simon so's't he can help me get back to my mother."

The lawyer sat for a few moments as if lost in thought. Finally, he raised his head and said:—

"I've a great mind to try you, Ralph. Do you think I can really place full confidence in you?"

"Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir!"

"And will you follow my advice to the letter, and do just what I tell you to do in this matter?"

"Yes, sir; I will."

"Well, then," said Sharpman, turning to Craft, "I think I'll trust the boy, and I'll assist you in your bonds. I know that we both have his interest at heart, and I believe that, together, we can restore his rights to him, and place him in the way of acceptance by his family. Ralph," turning again to the boy, "you ought to be very thankful to have found two such good friends as Mr. Craft and myself."

"Yes, sir, I am. You'll do everything you can for me, won't you? as quick as you can?"

"Oh, yes! Mr. Craft will be your guardian, and I will be his bondsman and lawyer. Now, I think we understand each other, and I guess that's all for to-night."

"When do you want me to come again?"

"Well, I shall want you to go to Wilkesbarre with me in a few days, to have the appointment of guardian made; but I will send for you. In the meantime you will keep on with your work as usual, and say nothing to any person about what we have told you. You'll do that, won't you?"

"Yes, sir, I will. But, Uncle Billy—can't I tell him? he'll be awful glad to know."

"Well, yes, you may tell Billy, but charge him to keep it a profound secret."

"Oh! he will, he will; he'll do anything like that 'at I ask 'im to."

Ralph picked up his cap and turned to go; he hesitated a moment, then he crossed the room to where old Simon still sat, and, standing before him, he said:—

"I'm sorry you're sick, Gran'pa Simon. I never meant to do wrong by you. I'll try to do w'at's right, after this, anyway."

The old man, taken by surprise, had no answer ready; and Sharpman, seeing that the situation was likely to become awkward, stepped forward and said: "Oh! I've no doubt he'll be all we can desire now."

He took the boy's hand, and led him toward the door. "I see my clerk has gone," he said; "are you afraid to go home alone?"

"Oh, no! It's moonlight; an' besides, I've gone home alone lot's o' nights."

"Well, good luck to you! Good-night!"

"Good-night!"

The office door closed behind the boy, and he went out into the street and turned toward home.

The moon was bright and full, and a delicate mist hung close to the earth. It was a very beautiful night. Ralph thought he had never seen so beautiful a night before. His own footsteps had a musical sound in his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach Bachelor Billy, and to tell to him the wonderful news,—news so wonderful that he could scarcely realize or comprehend it. Mr. Sharpman said he would be going back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather. And so he was, was he not? He asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would not say yes. There was a vague uneasiness within him that he could not quite define. It was not because he doubted that he was Mrs. Burnham's son; he believed that fact implicitly. It was not so much, either, that he could not go to her at once; he could wait for that if the end would only surely bring it. But it seemed to him that he was being set up in a kind of opposition to her; that he was being placed in a position which might lead to an estrangement between them: and that would be a very sad result, indeed, of this effort to establish his identity. But Mr. Sharpman had assured him that Mrs. Burnham approved of the action that was about to be taken in his behalf. Why, then, should he fear? Was it not absurd to cloud his happiness with the dread of something which would never come? Away with doubts! away with fears! he would revel, for to-night at least, in the joy of his new knowledge. Mrs. Burnham was his mother; was not that beautiful, beautiful? Could he, in his wildest flight of fancy or desire, have ever hoped for more than that? But there was something more, and that something was that Robert Burnham was his father. Ah! that was, beyond all question, the highest honor that could ever rest upon a boy,—to be the son of a hero! Ralph threw back his head and shoulders with instinctive, honest pride as this thought filled his mind and heart, and his quick step grew more elastic and more firm as he hurried on along the moonlit path.

He was out beyond the city limits now, climbing the long hill toward home. He could see Burnham Breaker, standing out in majestic proportions, black and clear-cut against the moon-illumined sky. By and by the little mining village came into view, and the row of cottages, in one of which the Widow Maloney lived; and finally the light in Bachelor Billy's window. When Ralph saw this he broke into a run, and sped swiftly along the deserted street, with the whole glad story of his parentage and his prospects crowding to his tongue.

Billy was still sitting by the fire when the boy burst into the room; but he had fallen asleep, and his clay pipe had dropped from his fingers and lay broken on the hearth.

"Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy! what do you think?"

"Why, Ralph, lad, is that yo'? I mus' 'a' been asleep. Whaur ye been, eh?"

"W'y don't you 'member? I went to Lawyer Sharpman's office."

"True for ye, so ye did. I forgot; an' did ye—"

"Oh, Uncle Billy! what do you think? Guess who I am; guess!"

"Why, lad, don't frighten a mon like that. Ye'll wake the neeborhood.
Who be ye, then?"

"Guess! guess! Oh, you'd never guess! I'm Ralph Burnham; I'm Mrs.
Burnham's son!"

Bachelor Billy's hands dropped lifelessly to his knees, his mouth and eyes came wide open with unfeigned astonishment, and, for the moment, he was speechless. Finally he found breath to exclaim: "Why, Ralph, lad; Ralph, ye're crazy,—or a-jokin'! Don't joke wi' a mon that way, Ralph; it ain't richt!"

"No, but, Uncle Billy, it's true; it's all true! Ain't it splendid?"

"Be ye sure o' that, Ralph? be ye sure o' it?"

"Oh! they ain't no mistake about it; they couldn't be."

"Well, the guid Lord save ye, lad!" and Billy looked the boy over carefully from head to foot, apparently to see if he had undergone any change during his absence. Then he continued: "Coom, sit ye, then; sit ye, an' tell us aboot it a'; how happenit it, eh?"

Again they drew their chairs up before the replenished fire, and Ralph gave a full account of all that had occurred at the lawyer's office.

By virtue of his own faith he inspired Bachelor Billy with equal confidence in the truth of the story; and, by virtue of his own enthusiasm, he kindled a blaze of enthusiasm in the man's heart that glowed with hardly less of brightness than that in his own. Very late that night they sat there, these two, talking of what the future held for Ralph; building bright castles for him, and high hopes, with happiness beyond measure. It was only when the fire burned out and left its charred coals in the iron grate-bars and on the hearth that they went to bed, the one to rest in the dreamless sleep that follows in the path of honest toil, and the other to wake often from his feverish slumber and stare down into the block of moonlight that fell across his bed through the half-curtained window of the room, and wonder whether he had just dreamed it all, or whether he had, indeed, at last, a birthright and a name.