At last, however, the lady understood and was silent.

She had not thought before how this proposal, well meant though it was, might jar upon the lad’s fine sense of honor and of the fitness of things.  She had not realized, until this moment, how a boy, possessing so delicate a nature as Ralph’s, might feel to take a position now, to which a court and jury had declared he was not entitled, to which he himself had acknowledged, and to which every one knew he was not entitled.

He had tried to gain the place by virtue of a suit at law, he had called upon the highest power in the land to put him into it, and his effort had not only ended in ignominious failure, but had left him stamped as a lineal descendant of one whose very name had become a by-word and a reproach.  How could he now, with the remotest sense of honor or of pride, step into the place that should have been occupied by Robert Burnham’s son?

The lady could not urge him any more, knowing what his thought was.  She could only say:—­

“Yes, Ralph; I understand.  I am very, very sorry.  I love you just the same, but I cannot ask you now to go with me.  I can only hope for a day when we shall know, and the world shall know, that you are my son.  You would come to me then, would you not, Ralph?”

“Indeed I would!” he said.  “Oh, indeed I would!”

She drew his head down upon her bosom and kissed his lips again and again; then she released him and rose to go.  She inquired very tenderly about his health, about his work, about his likes in the way of books and food and clothing; and one could see that, notwithstanding her resolution to leave Ralph with Bachelor Billy, she still had many plans in her mind, for his comfort and happiness.  She charged Billy to be very careful of the boy; she kissed him again, and Mildred kissed him, and then they stepped into the carriage and the restless brown horses drew them rapidly away.

CHAPTER XX.

THE FIRE IN THE SHAFT.

A boy with Ralph’s natural courage and spirit could not remain long despondent.  Ambition came back to him with the summer days, and hope found an abiding place in his breast once more.  It was not, indeed, the old ambition to be rich and learned and famous, nor the hope that he should yet be surrounded with beauty in a home made bright by a mother’s love.

All these things, though they had not faded from his mind, were thought of only as sweet dreams of the past.  His future, as he looked out upon it now, did not hold them; yet it was a future that had in it no disappointment, no desolation, no despair.  The path before him was a very humble one, indeed, but he resolved to tread it royally.  Because the high places and the beautiful things of earth were not for him was no reason why he should sit and mourn his fate in cheerless inactivity.  He determined to be up and doing, with the light and energy that he had, looking constantly ahead for more.  He knew that in America there is always something better for the very humblest toiler to anticipate, and that, with courage, hope, and high endeavor to assist him, he is sure to reach his goal.