Part 39 (1/2)

”Oh, don't!” he cried; ”Uncle Billy, don't let him take me back there to live with him! I couldn't stan' it! I couldn't! I'd die! I can't go, Uncle Billy! I can't!”

”There, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, I'll no' let ye.”

The man had Ralph in his arms trying to quiet him.

”But,” persisted the boy, ”he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. If they find out I'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to take me, I know they will!”

”But ye're no' his gran'son, Ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. Ye're Robert Burnham's son.”

”Oh, no, Uncle Billy, I ain't, I--” He stopped suddenly. The certain result of disclosing his knowledge to his Uncle Billy flashed warningly across his mind. If Bachelor Billy knew it, Mrs. Burnham must know it; if Mrs. Burnham knew it, Goodlaw and the court must know it, the verdict would be against him, Simon Craft would come to take him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to go. The law that would deny his claim as Robert Burnham's son would stamp him as the grandson of Simon Craft, and place him again in his cruel keeping.

Oh, no! he must not tell. If there were reasons for keeping silence before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last danger. He felt that he had rather die than go back to live with Simon Craft.

Bachelor Billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked a baby.

”There, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel',” he said, and his voice was very soothing, ”quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a'

coom oot richt. What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so fearfu'?”

”N--nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again.”

He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not be broken.

Toward morning he fell into a troubled sleep and dreamed that Old Simon was holding him over the mouth of Burnham Shaft, threatening to drop him down into it, while Sharpman stood by, with his hands in his pockets, laughing heartily at his terror. He managed to cry out, and awoke both himself and Bachelor Billy. He started up in bed, clutching at the coverings in an attempt, to save himself from apparent disaster, trembling from head to foot, moaning hoa.r.s.ely in his fright.

”What is it, Ralph, lad, what's ailin' ye?”

”Oh, don't! don't let him throw me--Uncle Billy, is that you?”

”It's me, Ralph. Waur ye dreamin'? There, never mind; no one s'all harm ye, ye're safe i' the bed at hame. Gae to sleep, lad, gae to sleep.”

”I thought they was goin' to throw me down the shaft. I must 'a' been a-dreamin'.”

”Yes, ye waur dreamin'. Gae to sleep.”

But Ralph did not go to sleep again that night, and when the first gray light of the dawning day came in at the cottage window he arose.

Bachelor Billy was still wrapped in heavy slumber, and the boy moved about cautiously so as not to waken him.

When he was dressed he went out and sat on a bench by the door. The storm of the night before had left the air cool and sweet, and it refreshed him to sit there and breathe it, and watch the sun as it came up from behind the long slanting roof of Burnham Breaker.

But he was very miserable, very miserable indeed. It was not so much the sense of fear, of pain, of disappointment that disturbed him now, it was the misery of a fettered conscience, the shadow of an ever present shame.

Finally the door was opened and Bachelor Billy stepped out.

”Good mornin', Uncle Billy,” said the boy, trying to speak cheerfully.

”Gude mornin' till ye, Ralph! Ye're up airly the mornin'. I mak' free to say ye're a-feelin' better.”

”Yes, I am. I didn't sleep very well, but I'm better this mornin'. I wisht it was all over with--the trial I mean; you see it's a-makin' me kind o' nervous an'--an' tired. I can't stan' much 'xcitement, some way.”

”Wull, ye'll no' ha' lang to wait I'm a-thinkin'. It'll be ower the day. What aboot you're gaein' to Wilkesbarre?”

”I don't know. I guess I'll go down to Mr. Sharpman's office after a while, an' see if he's left any word for me.”