But, ah! he would not have the good man look into his heart and see the lie there, not for worlds.

Ralph was passing along the same streets that he had traversed in coming to the city two hours before; but now the doors of the houses were closed, the curtains were drawn, the lights were out, there was no longer any sound of sweet voices at the steps, nor any laughter, nor any music in the air.  A rising wind was stirring the foliage of the trees into a noise like the subdued sobbing of many people; the streets were deserted, a fine rain had begun to fall, and out on the road, after the lad had left the suburbs, it was very dark.  Indeed, it was only by reason of long familiarity with the route that he could find his way at all.

But the storm and darkness outside were not to be compared with the tempest in his heart; that was terrible.  He had about made up his mind to tell Bachelor Billy everything and to follow his advice when he chanced to think of Mrs. Burnham, and how great her pain and disappointment would be when she should know the truth.  He knew that she believed him now to be her son; that she was ready to take him to her home, that she counted very greatly on his coming, and was impatient to bestow on him all the care and devotion that her mother’s heart could conceive.  It would be a bitter blow to her, oh, a very bitter blow.  It would be like raising her son from the dead only to lay him back into his grave after the first day.

What right had he to inflict such torture as this on a lady who had been so kind to him?  What right?  Did not her love for him and his love for her demand that he should keep silence?  But, oh! to hear the sound of loving words from her lips and know that he did not deserve them, to feel her mother’s kisses on his cheek and know that his heart was dark with deep deceit.  Could he endure that? could he?

As Ralph turned the corner of the village street, he saw the light from Bachelor Billy’s window shining out into the darkness.  There were no other lights to be seen.  People went early to bed there; they must rise early in the morning.

The boy knew that his Uncle Billy was waiting for him, doubtless with much anxiety, but, now that he had reached the cottage, he stood motionless by the door.  He was trying to decide what he should do and say on entering.  To tell Uncle Billy or not to tell him, that was the question.  He had never kept anything from him before; this would be the first secret he had not shared with him.  And Uncle Billy had been so good to him, too, so very good!  Yes, he thought he had better tell him; he would do it now, before his resolution failed.  He raised his hand to lift the latch.  Again he hesitated.  If he should tell him, that would end it all.  The good man would never allow him to act a falsehood.  He would have to bid farewell to all his sweet dreams of home, and his high plans for life, and step back into the old routine of helpless poverty and hopeless toil.  He felt that he was not quite ready to do that yet; heart, mind, body, all rebelled against it.  He would wait and hope for some way out, without the sacrifice of all that he had longed for.  His hand fell nerveless to his side.  He still stood waiting on the step in the beating rain.