After that he left the busy streets and walked back, by a less frequented route, toward home.  The day was very bright and warm, but the brightness had a cold glare in Ralph’s eyes, and he actually shivered as he walked on in the shade of the trees.  He crossed to the sunny side of the street, and hurried along through the suburbs and up the hill.

Widow Maloney called to him as he reached the cottage door, to ask after his health; but he told her he was feeling better, and went on into his own room.  He closed the door behind him, locked it, and threw himself down upon the bed.  He was very wretched.  Oh, very wretched, indeed.

He had decided to keep silent, and to let the case at Wilkesbarre go on to its expected end, but the decision had brought to him no peace; it had only made him more unhappy than he was before.  But why should it do this?  Was he not doing what was best?  Would it not be better for Uncle Billy, for Mrs. Burnham, for himself?  Must he, for the sake of some farfetched moral principle, throw himself into the merciless clutch of Simon Craft?

Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy’s heart went on with renewed earnestness.  He gave to his conscience, one by one, the reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham’s son; good reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him; but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a grievous wrong.

But whom would it wrong?  Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness.  And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always that it was wrong.

But whom would it wrong? himself?  Ah! there was a thought—­would it be wronging himself?

Well, would it not?  Had it not already made a coward of him?  Was it not degrading him in his own eyes?  Was it not trying to stifle the voice of conscience in his breast?  Would it not make of him a living, walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned?  Had he a right to place a burden so appalling on himself?  Would it not be better to face the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear?  Would it not be better even to die than to live a life like that?

He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and swelling nostrils.  A fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in his breast.  His better nature rose to the help of the angel with the flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought the dragons in their path.  Then hope came back, and courage grew, and resolution found new footing.  He stood there as he stood that day on the carriage that bore Robert Burnham to his death, the light of heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face.  He could not help but conquer.  He drove the spirit of temptation from his breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right.  There was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without flinching one hair’s breadth from the stern line of duty.