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