“Pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a child’s appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch.”

“I appreciate that fact, but I recall no resemblance whatever.  My baby had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a glow of health and happiness in his face.  This lad is different, very different.  There could not have been so great a change.  Oh, no, sir! your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; I am sure he is not.”

Sharpman was rejoiced.  Everything was working now exactly according to his plan.  He thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly.

“But my client,” he said, “appears to be perfectly sincere in his belief.  He will doubtless desire me to institute legal proceedings to recover for the boy his portion of Robert Burnham’s estate.”

“If you can recover it,” she said, calmly, “I shall transfer it to the child most cheerfully.  I take it, however, that you must first establish his identity as an heir?”

“Certainly.”

“And do you think this can be done against my positive testimony?”

“Perhaps not; that remains to be seen.  But I do not desire to contemplate such a contingency.  My object, my sole object, is to obtain a harmonious settlement of this matter outside of the courts.  That is why I am here in person.  I had hoped that I might induce you to acknowledge the boy as your son, to agree to set off his interest in his father’s estate, and to reimburse my client, to some extent, for his care and services.  This is my only wish in the matter, I assure you.”

“Why, as to that,” she replied, “I am willing to recognize services performed for any one; and if this old man has rescued and cared for the boy, even though he is not my son—­I have enough; if the man is in want, I will help him, I will give him money.  But wait! did you say he had been cruel to the child?  Then I withdraw my offer.  I have no pity for the harsh task-masters of young children.  Something to eat, to drink, to wear,—­I will give him that,—­nothing more.”

“I am to understand, then, that you positively decline to acknowledge this boy as your son?” asked the lawyer, rising.

“With the evidence that I now have,” she said, “I do.  I should be glad to assist him; I have it in mind to do so; he is a brave, good boy, and I love him.  But I can do nothing more, sir,—­nothing more.”

“I regret exceedingly, madam, the failure of my visit,” said Sharpman, bowing himself toward the door.  “I trust, I sincerely trust, that whatever I may find it in my heart and conscience to do in behalf of this boy, through the medium of the courts, will meet with no bitterness of feeling on your part.”

“Certainly not,” she replied, standing in matronly dignity.  “You could do me no greater favor than to prove to me that this boy is Ralph Burnham.  If I could believe that he is really my son, I would take him to my heart with inexpressible joy.  Without that belief I should be false to my daughter’s interest to compel her to share with a stranger not only her father’s estate but also her mother’s affection.”