He fell to thinking of his visit to his mother.  It seemed to him as though it were something that had taken place very long ago.  It was like a sweet dream that he had dreamed as a little boy.  He wondered if it was indeed only that afternoon that it had all occurred.  It had been so beautiful, so very beautiful; and now!  Could it be that this boy, sitting weak, wretched, disconsolate, on the steps of this deserted office, in the night-time, was the same boy whose feet had scarcely touched the ground that afternoon for buoyant happiness?  Oh, it was dreadful! dreadful!  He began to wonder why he did not cry.  He put up his hands to see if there were any tears on his cheeks, but he found none.  Did only people cry who had some gentler cause for tears?

But the thought of what would happen if he should keep his knowledge to himself came back again into his mind.  He drove it out, but it returned.  It had a fascination about it that was difficult to resist.  It would be so easy simply to say nothing.  And who would ever know that he was not Mrs. Burnham’s son?  Why, Old Simon would know, but he would not dare to tell; Lawyer Sharpman would know, but he would not dare to tell; Rhyming Joe would know, but he would not dare to tell, at least, not for a long time.  And suppose it should be known after a year, after two years or longer, who would blame him? he would be supposed to have been ignorant of it all; he would be so established by that time in his new home that he would not have to leave it.  They might take his property, his money, all things else, but he knew that if he could but live with Mrs. Burnham for a year she would never let him leave her, and that was all he cared for at any rate.

But then, he himself would know that he had no right there; he would have to live with this knowledge always with him, he would have to walk about with an ever present lie on his mind and in his heart.  He could not do that, he would not do it; he must disclose his knowledge, and make some effort to see that justice was not mocked.  But it was too late to do anything to-night.  He wondered how late it was.  He thought of Bachelor Billy waiting for him at home.  He feared that the good man would be worried on account of his long absence.  A clock in a church tower not far away struck ten.  Ralph started to his feet, went out into the street again, and up toward home.

But Uncle Billy! what would Uncle Billy say when he should tell him what he had heard?  Would he counsel him to hold his tongue?  Ah, no! the boy knew well the course that Uncle Billy would mark out for him.

But it would be a great blow to the man; he would grieve much on account of the lad’s misfortune; he would feel the pangs of disappointment as deeply as did Ralph himself.  Ought he not to be spared this pain?

And then, a person holding the position of Robert Burnham’s son could give much comfort to the man who had been his dearest friend, could place him beyond the reach of possible want, could provide well for the old age that was rapidly approaching, could make happy and peaceful the remnant of his days.  Was it not the duty of a boy to do it?