“You ‘member that night I come home a-cryin’, an’ I couldn’t tell w’at the matter was?  Well, it wasn’t nothin’ but that.  I come by a house down there in the city, w’ere they had it all lighted up, an’ they wasn’t no curtains acrost the windows, an’ you could look right in.  They was a havin’ a little party there; they was a father an’ a mother an’ sisters and brothers an’ all; an’ they was all a-laughin’ an’ a-playin’ an’ jest as happy as they could be.  An’ they was a boy there ‘at wasn’t no bigger’n me, an’ his mother come an’ put her arms aroun’ his neck an’ kissed him.  It didn’t seem as though I could stan’ it, Uncle Billy, I wanted to go in so bad an’ be one of ’em.  An’ then it begun to rain, an’ I had to come away, an’ I walked up here in the dark all alone, an’ w’en I got here they wasn’t nothin’ but jest one room, an’ nobody but you a-waitin’ for me, an’—­no! now, Uncle Billy, don’t!  I don’t mean nothin’ like that—­you’ve been jest as good to me as you could be; you’ve been awful good to me, al’ays! but it ain’t like, you know; it ain’t like havin’ a home with your own mother.”

“Never min’, laddie; never min’; ye s’all have a hame, an’ a mither too some day, I mak’ na doot,—­some day.”

There was silence for a time, then Bachelor Billy continued:—­

“Gin ye had your choice, lad, what kin’ o’ a mither would ye choose for yoursel’?”

“Oh!  I don’t know—­yes, I do too!—­it’s wild, I know it’s wild, an’ I hadn’t ought to think of it; but if I could have jest the mother I want, it’d be—­it’d be Mrs. Burnham.  There! now, don’t laugh, Uncle Billy; I know it’s out o’ all reason; she’s very rich, an’ beautiful, an’ everything; but if I could be her boy for jest one week—­jest one week, Uncle Billy, I’d—­well, I’d be willin’ to die.”

“Ye mak’ high choice, Ralph, high choice; but why not? ye’re as like to find the mither in high places as in low, an’ liker too fra my way o’ thinkin’.  Choose the bes’, lad, choose the bes’!”

“But she’s so good to us,” continued the boy, “an’ she talks so nice to us.  You ’member the time I told you ’bout, w’en we breaker boys went down there, all of us, an’ she cried kin’ o’ soft, an’ stooped down an’ kissed me?  I shouldn’t never forgit that if I live to be a thousan’ years old.  An’ jes’ think of her kissin’ me that way ev’ry night,—­think of it Uncle Billy! an’ ev’ry mornin’ too, maybe; wouldn’t that be—­be—­” and Ralph, at a loss for a fitting wor to represent such bliss as that, simply clasped his hands together and gazed wistfully into the fire.  After a minute or two he went on:  “She ’membered it, too.  I was ’fraid she’d never know which boy it was she kissed, they was so many of us there; but she did, you know, an’ she’s been to see me, an’ brought me things, ain’t she? an’ promised to help me find out about myself jest the same as Mr. Burnham did.  Oh dear!  I hope she won’t die now, like he did—­Uncle Billy! oh, Uncle Billy!” as a sudden thought struck in on the boy’s mind, “if she was—­if Mrs. Burnham was my mother, then Mr. Burnham would ‘a’ been my father wouldn’t he?”