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?"

"That's my name," responded Billy, rising from his chair.

"And are you Ralph?" asked the young man, turning to the boy.

"Yes, sir, that's my name, too," was the quick reply.

"Well, Ralph, can you take a little walk with me this evening, as far
as Lawyer Sharpman's office?"

"Wha' for do ye want the lad?" asked Billy, advancing and placing a
chair for the stranger to sit in.

"Well, to speak confidentially, I believe it's something about his
parentage."

"Who his father an' mother waur?"

"Yes."

"Then he s'all go wi' ye if he like. Ralph, ye can put on the new
jacket an' go wi' the mon."

The boy's heart beat tumultuously as he hurried on his best clothes.

At last! at last he was to know. Some one had found him out. He was no
longer "nobody's child."

He struggled into his Sunday coat, pulled his cap on his head, and,
in less than ten minutes he was out on the road with the messenger,
hurrying through the frosty air and the bright moonlight, toward
Sharpman's office.

CHAPTER VI.

BR