y, definitely, that no evidence would induce you
to believe your child to be living?"

"Oh, no! not that. But I should want something very strong in the
way of proof. Let this man come and relate his story to me. If it is
false, I think I should be able to detect it."

"I advised him to do so, but, aside from his appearance, which is
hardly in harmony with these surroundings, I think he would prefer not
to hold a personal conference with the boy's friends. I may as well
give you my reason for that belief. The old man says that the boy ran
away from him two or three years ago, and I have inferred that the
flight was due, partially, at least, to unkind treatment on Craft's
part. I believe he is now afraid to talk the matter over with you
personally, lest you should rebuke him too severely for his conduct
toward the child and his failure to take proper care of him. He
is anxious that all negotiations should be conducted through his
attorney. Rather sensitive, he is, for a man of his general stamp."

"And did the child return to him?" asked the lady, anxiously, not
heeding the lawyer's last remark.

"Oh, no! The old man searched the country over for him. He did not
find him until this summer."

"And where was he found?"

"Here, in Scranton."

"In Scranton! That is strange. Is the boy here still?"

"He is."

"Where does he live? who cares for him?"

Sharpman had not intended to give quite so much information, but he
could not well evade these questions and at the same time appear to be
perfectly honest in the matter, so he answered her frankly:

"He lives with one William Buckley, better known as 'Bachelor Billy.'
He works in the screen-room at Burnham Breaker."

"Indeed! by what name is he known?"

"By your son's name--Ralph."

"Ralph, the slate-picker! Do you mean that boy?"

It was Sharpman's turn to be surprised.

"Do you know him?" he asked, quickly.

"I do," she replied. "My husband first told me of him; I have seen him
frequently; I have talked with him so lately as yesterday."

"Ah, indeed! I am very glad you know the boy. We can talk more
intelligently concerning him."

"Do I understand you, then, to claim that Ralph, the slate-picker, is
my son? this boy and no other?"

"That is my client's statement, madam."

The lady leaned back wearily in her chair.

"Then I fear you have come upon a futile errand, Mr. Sharpman," she
said.

But, from the lawyer's stand-point, it began to look as if