not my son--I have enough; if the man is in
want, I will help him, I will give him money. But wait! did you say he
had been cruel to the child? Then I withdraw my offer. I have no pity
for the harsh task-masters of young children. Something to eat, to
drink, to wear,--I will give him that,--nothing more."

"I am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge
this boy as your son?" asked the lawyer, rising.

"With the evidence that I now have," she said, "I do. I should be glad
to assist him; I have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy,
and I love him. But I can do nothing more, sir,--nothing more."

"I regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit," said Sharpman,
bowing himself toward the door. "I trust, I sincerely trust, that
whatever I may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf
of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no
bitterness of feeling on your part."

"Certainly not," she replied, standing in matronly dignity. "You could
do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is Ralph
Burnham. If I could believe that he is really my son, I would take him
to my heart with inexpressible joy. Without that belief I should be
false to my daughter's interest to compel her to share with a stranger
not only her father's estate but also her mother's affection."

"Madam, I have the most profound respect for your conscience and your
judgment. I trust that no meeting between us will be less pleasant
than this one has been. I wish you good-morning!"

"Good-morning, sir!"

Sharpman bowed himself gracefully out, and walked briskly down the
street, with a smile on his face. The execution of his scheme had met,
thus far, with a success which he had hardly anticipated.

* * * * *

Every one about Burnham Breaker knew Bachelor Billy. No one ever knew
any ill of him. He was simple and unlearned, but his heart was very
large, and he was honest and manly to the marrow of his bones. He
had no ties of family or of kin, but every one who knew him was his
friend; every child who saw him smiled up instinctively into his face;
he was a brother to all men. Gray spots were coming in his hair, his
shoulders were bowed with toil, and his limbs were bent with disease,
but the kind look never vanished from his rugged face, and the kind
word never faltered on his lips. He went to his task at Burnham
Breaker in the early morning, he toiled a