“I took the child around among the people there, and tried to find out who he belonged to, but no one seemed to know anything about him.  He wasn’t old enough to talk distinctly, so he couldn’t tell me much about himself; not anything, in fact, except that his name was Ralph.  I took him home with me to my lodgings in the city that night, and the next morning I went out to the scene of the accident to try to discover some clew to his identity.  But I couldn’t find out anything about him; nothing at all.  The day after that I was taken sick.  The exertion, the exposure, and the wetting I had got in the water of the brook, brought on a severe attack of pneumonia.  It was several months before I got around again as usual, and I am still suffering, you see, from the results of that sickness.  After that, as my time and means and business would permit, I went out and searched for the boy’s friends.  It is useless for me to go into the details of that search, but I will say that I made every effort and every sacrifice possible during five years, without the slightest success.  In the meantime the child remained with me, and I clothed him and fed him and cared for him the very best I could, considering the circumstances in which I was placed.

“About three years ago I happened to be in Scranton on business, and, by the merest chance, I learned that you had been in the Cherry Brook disaster, that you had lost your child there, and that the child’s name was Ralph.  Following up the clew, I became convinced that this boy was your son.  I thought the best way to break the news to you was to bring you the child himself.  With that end in view, I returned immediately to Philadelphia, only to find Ralph—­missing.  He had either run away or been stolen, I could not tell which.  I was not able to trace him.  Three months later I heard that he had been with a travelling circus company, but had left them after a few days.  After that I lost track of him entirely for about three years.  Now, however, I have found him.  I saw him so lately as yesterday.  He is alive and well.”

Several times during the recital of this narrative, the old man had been interrupted by spasms of coughing, and, now that he was done, he gave himself up to a violent and prolonged fit of it.

Robert Burnham had listened intently enough, there was no doubt of that; but he did not yet seem quite ready to believe that his boy was really alive.

“Why did you not tell me,” he asked, “when the child left you, so that I might have assisted you in the search for him?”

Craft hesitated a moment.

“I did not dare to,” he said.  I was afraid you would blame me too severely for not taking better care of him, and I was hoping every day to find him myself.”

“Well, let that pass.  Where is he now?  Where is the boy who, you say, is my son?”

“Pardon me, sir, but I cannot tell you that just yet.  I know where he is.  I can bring him to you on two days’ notice.  But, before I do that, I feel that, in justice to myself, I should receive some compensation, not only for the care of the child through five years of his life, but also for the time, toil, and money spent in restoring him to you.”