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,