"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?"