The result of the trial seemed to be a foregone conclusion. Every one said there was no doubt, now, that Ralph was really Robert Burnham's son. People even wondered why Mrs. Burnham did not end the matter by acknowledging the boy and taking him to her home.

And, indeed, this was her impulse and inclination, but Goodlaw, in whose wisdom she put much confidence, had advised her not to be in haste. They had had a long consultation after the adjournment of court on Saturday evening, and had agreed that the evidence pointed, almost conclusively, to the fact that Ralph was Mrs. Burnham's son. But the lawyer said that the only safe way was to wait until the verdict of the jury should fix the status of the boy beyond question. It would be but a day or two at the most.

Then Ralph might be taken by his mother, and proceedings could be at once begun to have Simon Craft dismissed from the post of guardian. Indeed, it had been with this end in view that Goodlaw had made his cross-examination of Craft so thorough and severe. He had shown, as he intended to, from the man's own lips that he was unfit to have possession either of the child or of his property.

This danger was now making itself more and more apparent to Sharpman. In the excitement of the trial, he had not fully realized the probable effect which the testimony elicited from his client by the opposing counsel might have.

Now he saw what it could lead to; but he had sufficient confidence in himself to believe that, in the time before action in that phase of the case should become necessary, he could perfect a plan by which to avert disaster. The first and best thing to be done, however, under any circumstances, was to keep the confidence and friendship of Ralph. With this thought in mind, he occupied a seat with the boy as they rode up from Wilkesbarre on the train that night, and kept him interested and amused until they reached the station at Scranton.

He said to him that he, Sharpman, should go down to Wilkesbarre early on Monday morning, and that, as it might be necessary to see Ralph before going, the boy had better call at his office for a few moments on Sunday evening. Ralph promised to do so, and, with a cordial handshake, the lawyer hurried away.

It is seldom that the probable outcome of a suit at law gives so great satisfaction to all the parties concerned in it as this had done. Simon Craft was jubilant. At last his watching and waiting, his hoping and scheming, were about to be rewarded. It came in the evening of his life to be sure, but—better late than never. He had remained in Wilkesbarre Saturday night. He thought it useless to go up to Scranton simply to come back again on Monday morning. He spent the entire day on Sunday planning for the investment of the money he should receive, counting it over and over again in anticipation, chuckling with true miserly glee at the prospect of coming wealth.

But Ralph was the happiest one of all. He knew that on the coming
Monday the jury would declare him to be Robert Burnham's son.

After that, there would be nothing to prevent his mother from taking him to her home, and that she would do so there was no longer any doubt. When he awoke Sunday morning and thought it all over, it seemed to him that he had never been so near to perfect happiness in all his life before.

The little birds that came and sang in the elm-tree by his window repeated in their songs the story of his fortune. The kind old sun beamed in upon him with warmest greeting and heartiest approval.

Out-of-doors, the very atmosphere of the May day was redolent with all good cheer, and Ralph took great draughts of it into his lungs as he walked with Bachelor Billy to the little chapel at the foot of the hill, where they were used to going to attend the Sunday morning service. In the afternoon they went, these two, out by the long way to the breaker. Ralph looked up at the grim, black monster, and thought of the days gone by; the days of watchfulness, of weariness, of hopeless toil that he had spent shut up within its jarring walls.

But they were over now. He should never again climb the narrow steps to the screen-room in the darkness of the early morning. He should never again take his seat on the black bench to bend above the stream of flowing coal, to breathe the thick dust, and listen to the rattling and the roaring all day long. That time had passed, there was to be no more grinding toil, no more harsh confinement in the heat and dust, no more longing for the bright sunlight and the open air, nor for the things of life that lay beyond his reach. The night was gone, the morning was come, the May day of his life was dawning, wealth was lying at his feet, rich love was overshadowing him; why should he not be happy?

"Seems jest as though I hadn't never had any trouble, Uncle Billy," he said, "as though I'd been kind o' waitin' an' waitin' all along for jest this, an' now it's here, ain't it?"

"Yes, lad."

"An' some way it's all so quiet an' smooth like, so peaceful, don't you know. She—she seems to be so glad 'at she needn't keep me away from her no longer after the trial's over. I think she wants me to come, don't you? It ain't like most law-suits, is it?"

"She's a lovin' lady, an' I'm a-thinkin' they're a-meanin' to deal rightly by ye, Ralph."

There was a pause. They were sitting on the bank in the shadow of the breaker, and the soft wind was bringing up to them the perfume of apple-blossoms from the orchard down by the road-side. Silence, indeed, was the only means of giving fitting expression to such quiet joy as pervaded the boy's heart.

A man, driving along the turnpike with a horse and buggy, turned up the road to the breaker, and stopped in front of Bachelor Billy and the boy.

"Is this Ralph?" he asked.

"Yes," said the boy, "that's me."

"Well, Mrs. Burnham would like to see you. She sent me over to bring you. I went to your house, and they said most likely I'd find you up here. Just jump in and we'll drive right down."

Ralph looked up inquiringly at Bachelor Billy.

"Go on, lad," he said; "when the mither sen's for ye, ye mus' go."
Ralph climbed up into the buggy.

"Good-by, Uncle Billy," he called out, as they started away down the hill.

Bachelor Billy did not answer. A sudden thought had come to him; a sudden fear had seized him. He stood for a moment motionless; then he started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran. They heard him and stopped. In a minute he had reached them.

"Ralph," he said, hastily, "ye're not goin' now for gude? Ye'll coom back the nicht, won't ye, Ralph? I couldn't—I couldn't abide to have ye go this way, not for gude. It's—it's too sudden, d'ye see."

His voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips was heightened by the forced smile that parted them. Ralph reached out from the buggy and grasped the man's rough hand.

"I ain't leavin' you for good, Uncle Billy," he said. "I'm comin' back agin, sure; I promise I will. Would you ruther I wouldn't go, Uncle Billy?"

"Oh, no! ye mus' go. I shouldn't 'a' stoppit ye. It was verra fulish in me. But ye see," turning to the driver apologetically, "the lad's been so long wi' me it's hard to part wi' 'im. An' it cam' ower me so sudden like, that mayhap he'd not be a-comin' back, that I—that I—wull, wull! it's a' richt, ye need na min' me go on; go on, lad, an' rich blessin's go wi' ye!" and Bachelor Billy turned and walked rapidly away.

This was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of Ralph's happiness. He would have to leave Bachelor Billy alone. But he had fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were now at hand.

His mind was full of plans for his Uncle Billy's happiness and welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with the Sunday quiet resting on them, to the House where Ralph's mother waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son.

She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home until after the conclusion of the trial. He had explained to her that to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain event, prejudice not only her interests but her son's also. And the time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait. She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so. Then, when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence.

That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was nothing. She would not think of that. It was only a prejudice fixed by long years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out.

But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that Ralph was not her son. He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best that could come to him, and she loved him. Indeed, during these last few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could satisfy it. She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly to its close, would result in giving to her a son. It was a strange defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing. On this peaceful Sunday morning her mind was full with plans for the lad's comfort, for his happiness and his education. But the more she thought upon him the greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his face, to hold him in her arms. In the quiet of the afternoon this longing became more intense. She tried to put it away from her, but it would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy's face, rising always in her thought, refuted all her logic. She felt that he must come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by. She called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear.

He came at last, and she met him in the hall. It was a welcome such as he had never dreamed of. They went into a beautiful room, and she drew his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked with him. She made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from the time he could remember, and when he told about Bachelor Billy and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"We'll remember him," she said; "we'll be very good to him always."

"Mrs. Burnham," asked Ralph, "do you really an' truly believe 'at I'm your son?"

She evaded the question skilfully.

"I'm not Mrs. Burnham to you any more," she said. "You are my little boy now and I am your mother. But wait! no; you must not call me 'mother' yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each other the names we like best, shall we not?"

"Yes; an' will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?"

"I hope so. I shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?"

"Oh, yes; but so long as it's comin' out so nice, I don't care so very much. It's all so good now 'at it couldn't be much better. I could stan' it another day or two, I guess."

"Well, my dear, we will be patient. It cannot but come out right. Are you glad you are coming here to live with me, Ralph?"

"Yes, ma'am, I am; I'm very much delighted. I've always wanted a mother; you don't know how much I've wanted a mother; but I never 'xpected—not till Gran'pa Simon come—I never 'xpected to get such a lovely one. You don't know; I wisht I could tell you; I wisht I could do sumpthin' so 'at you'd know how glad I am."

She leaned over and kissed him.

"There's only one thing you can do, Ralph, to show me that; you can come back here when the trial is over and be my boy and live with me always."

"Oh, I'll come!"

"And then we'll see what you shall do. Would you like to go to school and study?"

"Oh, may I?"

"Certainly! what would you like to study?"

"Readin'. If I could only study readin' so as to learn to read real good. I can read some now; but you know they's such lots o' things to read 'at I can't do it fast enough."

"Yes, you shall learn to read fast, and you shall read to me. You shall read books to me."

"What! whole books?—through?"

"Yes, would you like that?"

"Oh!" and the boy clasped his hands together in unspeakable delight.

"Yes, and you shall read stories to Mildred, your little sister. I wonder where she is; wouldn't you like to see her?"

"Yes, ma'am, I would, very much."

"I'll send for her."

"You'll have books of your own, you know," continued the lady, as she returned across the room, "and playthings of your own, and a room of your own, near mine, and every night you'll kiss me good-night, will you not, and every morning you will kiss me good-morning?"

"Oh, indeed I will! indeed!"

In through the curtained door-way came little Mildred, her blond curls tossing about her face, her cheeks rosy with health, her eyes sparkling with anticipation.

She had seen Ralph and knew him, but as yet she had not understood that he was her brother. She could not comprehend it at once, there were many explanations to be made, and Ralph's story was retold; but when the fact of his relation to her became fixed in her mind, it was to her a truth that could never afterward be shaken.

"And will you come to live with us?" she asked him.

"Yes," said Ralph, "I 'xpect to."

"And will you play with me?"

"Well, I—I don't know how to play girl's plays, but I guess I can learn," he said, looking inquiringly up into his mother's face.

"You shall both learn whatever you like that is innocent and healthful and pretty to play, my children."

The house-maid, at the door, announced dinner.

"Come," said the lady, placing an arm about each child, "come, let us eat together and see how it seems."

She drew them gently to the dining-room and placed them at the table, and sat where she could look from one to the other and drink in the joy of their presence.

But Ralph had grown more quiet. It was all so new and strange to him and so very beautiful that he could do little more than eat his food, and answer questions, and look about him in admiring wonder.

When dinner was finished the afternoon had grown late, and Ralph, remembering Bachelor Billy's fear, said that he ought to go. They did not try to detain him; but, with many kind words and good-wishes and bright hopes for the morrow, they kissed him good-night and he went his way. The sky was still cloudless; the cool of the coming evening refreshed the air, the birds that sing at twilight were already breaking forth into melody as if impatient for the night, and Ralph walked out through it all like one in a dream.

It was so much sweeter than anything he had ever heard of or thought of, this taste of home, so much, so very much! His heart was like a thistle bloom floating in the air, his feet seemed not to touch the ground; he was walking as a spirit might have walked, buoyed up by thoughts of all things beautiful. He reached the cottage that for years had been his home, and entered it with a cry of gladness on his lips.

"Oh, Uncle Billy! it was—it was just like heaven!" He had thrown himself upon a stool at the man's feet, and sat looking up into the kindly face.

Bachelor Billy did not answer. He only placed his hand tenderly on the boy's head, and they both sat, in silence, looking out through the open door, until the pink clouds in the western sky had faded into gray, and the deepening twilight wrapped the landscape, fold on fold, in an ever thickening veil.

By and by Ralph's tongue was loosened, and he told the story of his visit to Mrs. Burnham. He gave it with all fulness; he dwelt long and lovingly on his mother's beauty and affection, on his sister's pretty ways, on the splendors of their home, on the plans marked out for him.

"An' just to think of it!" he exclaimed, "after to-morrow, I'll be there ev'ry day, ev'ry day. It's too beautiful to think of, Uncle Billy; I can't help lookin' at myself an' wonderin' if it's me."

"It's verra fine, but ye've a richt to it, lad, an' ye desarve it, an' it's a blessin' to all o' ye."

Again they fell into silence. The blue smoke from Billy's pipe went floating into the darkness, and up to their ears came the sound of distant church bells ringing out their music to the night.

Finally, Ralph thought of the appointed meeting at Sharpman's office, and started to his feet.

"I mus' hurry now," he said, "or he'll think I ain't a-comin'."

The proposed visit seemed to worry Bachelor Billy somewhat. He did not like Sharpman. He had not had full confidence in him from the beginning. And since the interview on the day of Ralph's return from Wilkesbarre, his faith in the pureness of the lawyer's motives had been greatly shaken. He had watched the proceedings in Ralph's case as well as his limited knowledge of the law would allow, and, though he had discovered nothing, thus far, that would injure or compromise the boy, he was in constant fear lest some plan should be developed by which Ralph would be wronged, either in reputation or estate.

He hesitated, therefore, to have the lad fulfil this appointment.

"I guess I'd better go wi' ye," he said, "mayhap an' ye'll be afeared a-comin' hame i' the dark."

"Oh, no, Uncle Billy!" exclaimed the boy, "they ain't no use in your walkin' way down there. I ain't a bit afraid, an' I'll get home early. Mr. Sharpman said maybe it wouldn't be any use for me to go to Wilkesbarre to-morrow at all, and he'd let me know to-night. No, don't you go! I'm a-goin' to run down the hill so's to get there quicker; good-by!"

The boy started off at a rapid pace, and broke into a run as he reached the brow of the hill, while Bachelor Billy unwillingly resumed his seat, and watched the retreating form of the lad until it was swallowed up in the darkness.

Ralph thought that the night air was very sweet, and he slackened his pace at the foot of the hill, in order to enjoy breathing it.

He was passing along a street lined with pretty, suburban dwellings. Out from one yard floated the rich perfume of some early flowering shrub. The delicious odor lingered in the air along the whole length of the block, and Ralph pleased his fancy by saying that it was following him.

Farther on there was a little family group gathered on the porch, parents and children, talking and laughing, but gently as became the day. Very happy they seemed, very peaceful, untroubled and content. It was beautiful, Ralph thought, very beautiful, this picture of home, but he was no longer envious, his heart did not now grow bitter nor his eyes fill full with tears. His own exceeding hope was too great for that to-night, his own home joys too near and dear.

Still farther on there was music. He could look into the lighted parlor and see the peaceful faces of those who stood or sat there. A girl was at the piano playing; a young, fair girl with a face like the faces of the pictured angels. They were all singing, a familiar sacred song, and the words came floating out so sweetly to the boy's ears that he stopped to listen:—

"O Paradise! O Paradise!
Who doth not crave for rest?
Who would not seek the happy land,
Where they that loved are blest;
Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,
All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight?"

Oh, it was all so beautiful! so peaceful! so calm and holy!

Ralph tried to think, as he started on, whether there was anything that he could have, or see, or do, that would increase his happiness. But there was nothing in the whole world now, nothing more, he said to himself, that he could think to ask for.

"Where loyal hearts and true,
Stand ever in the light."

The words came faintly from the distance to his ears as the music died away, the gentle wind brought perfumed air from out the shadows of the night to touch his face. The quiet stars looked down in peace upon him, the heart that beat within his breast was full with hope, with happiness, with calm content.