“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 hoarsely 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.”