Part 40 (2/2)

”It's no' unlikely. But atween the twa, I'd sooner think it was the auld mon was a-tellin' o' the lee. He has more to make out o' it, do ye see?”

”Well, there's the evidence in court.”

”True, but Lawyer Sharpman kens the worth o' that as well as ony o'

us. An he was na fearfu' that the truth would owerbalance it, he wadna gi' a mon a hunderd an' fifty dollars to hold his tongue. I'm doubtfu'

for ye, Ralph, I'm verra doubtfu'.”

Ralph had believed Rhyming Joe's story from the beginning, but he felt that this belief must be confirmed by Uncle Billy in order to put it beyond question. Now he was satisfied. It only remained to act.

”It's all true,” he said; ”I know it's all true, an' sumpthin's got to be done. What shall I do, Uncle Billy?”

The troubled look deepened on the man's face.

”Whether it's fause or true,” he replied, ”ye s'ould na keep it to yoursel'. She ought to know. It's only fair to go an' tell the tale to her an' let her do what she thenks bes'.”

”Must I tell Mrs. Burnham? Must I go an' tell her 'at I ain't her son, an' 'at I can't live with her, an' 'at we can't never be happy together the way we talked? Oh, Uncle Billy, I can't do that, I can't!”

He looked up beseechingly into the man's face. Something that he saw there--pain, disappointment, affection, something, inspired him with fresh courage, and he started to his feet and dashed the tears from his eyes.

”Yes, I can do it too!” he exclaimed. ”I can do anything 'at's right, an' that's right. I won't wait; I'll go now.”

”Don't haste, lad; wait a bit; listen! If the lady should be gone to court ye mus' gae there too. If ye canna find her, ye mus' find her lawyer. One or the ither ye s'ould tell, afoor the verdict comes; afterwards it might be too late.”

”Yes, I'll do it, I'll do it just like that.”

”Mos' like ye'll have to go to Wilkesbarre. An ye do I'll go mysel'.

But dinna wait for me. I'll coom when I can get awa'. Ye s'ould go on the first train that leaves.”

”Yes, I unnerstan'. I'll go now.”

”Wait a bit! Keep up your courage, Ralph. Ye've done a braw thing, an'

ye're through the worst o' it; but ye'll find a hard path yet, an'

ye'll need a stout hert. Ralph,” he had taken both the boy's hands into his again, and was looking tenderly into his haggard face and bloodshot eyes; the traces of the struggle were so very plain--”Ralph, I fear I'd cry ower ye a bit an we had the time, ye've sufferit so.

An' it's gude for ye, I'm thinkin', that ye mus' go quick. I'd make ye weak, an' ye need to be strang. I canna fear for ye, laddie; ye ken the right an' ye'll do it. Good-by till ye; it'll not be lang till I s'all go to ye; good-by!”

He bent down and kissed the boy's forehead and turned him to face toward the city; and when Ralph had disappeared below the brow of the hill, the rough-handed, warm-hearted toiler of the breaker's head wiped the tears from his face, and climbed back up the steep steps, and the long walks of cleated plank, to engage in his accustomed task.

There was no shrinking on Ralph's part now. He was on fire with the determination to do the duty that lay so plainly in his sight. He did not stop to argue with himself, he scarcely saw a person or a thing along his path; he never rested from his rapid journey till he reached the door of Mrs. Burnham's house.

A servant came in answer to his ring at the bell, and gave him pleasant greeting. She said that Mrs. Burnham had gone to Wilkesbarre, that she had started an hour before, that she had said she would come back in the early evening and would doubtless bring her son with her.

Ralph looked up into the woman's face, and his eyes grew dim.

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