couldn't tell me much
about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph.
I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and
the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to
discover some clew to his identity. But I couldn't find out anything
about him; nothing at all. The day after that I was taken sick. The
exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the
brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia. It was several months
before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see,
from the results of that sickness. After that, as my time and means
and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy's
friends. It is useless for me to go into the details of that search,
but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible
during five years, without the slightest success. In the meantime the
child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for
him the very best I could, considering the circumstances in which I
was placed.

"About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and,
by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook
disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child's
name was Ralph. Following up the clew, I became convinced that this
boy was your son. I thought the best way to break the news to you was
to bring you the child himself. With that end in view, I returned
immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph--missing. He had
either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which. I was not
able to trace him. Three months later I heard that he had been with a
travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days. After
that I lost track of him entirely for about three years. Now, however,
I have found him. I saw him so lately as yesterday. He is alive and
well."

Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had
been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he
gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it.

Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of
that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was
really alive.

"Why did you not tell me," he asked, "when the child left you, so that
I might have assisted you in the search for him?"

Craft hesitated a moment.

"I did not dare to," he said. I was afraid you would blame me too
s