“Na doot, lad, na doot.”

“Robert Burnham—­would ‘a’ been—­my father.  Oh!” The boy drew himself up to his full height and stood gazing into the fire in proud contemplation of such overwhelming happiness and honor.

There was a knock at the door.  Ralph went and opened it, and a young man stepped in.

“Ah! good evening!” he said.  “Does a man by the name of Buckley live here?  William Buckley?”

“That’s my name,” responded Billy, rising from his chair.

“And are you Ralph?” asked the young man, turning to the boy.

“Yes, sir, that’s my name, too,” was the quick reply.

“Well, Ralph, can you take a little walk with me this evening, as far as Lawyer Sharpman’s office?”

“Wha’ for do ye want the lad?” asked Billy, advancing and placing a chair for the stranger to sit in.

“Well, to speak confidentially, I believe it’s something about his parentage.”

“Who his father an’ mother waur?”

“Yes.”

“Then he s’all go wi’ ye if he like.  Ralph, ye can put on the new jacket an’ go wi’ the mon.”

The boy’s heart beat tumultuously as he hurried on his best clothes.

At last! at last he was to know.  Some one had found him out.  He was no longer “nobody’s child.”

He struggled into his Sunday coat, pulled his cap on his head, and, in less than ten minutes he was out on the road with the messenger, hurrying through the frosty air and the bright moonlight, toward Sharpman’s office.

CHAPTER VI.

Breaking the news.

Simon Craft and Lawyer Sharpman were sitting together in the rear room of the latter’s law office.  The window-shades were closely drawn, shutting out the mellow light of the full moon, which rested brightly and beautifully on all objects out of doors.

The gas jet, shaded by a powerful reflector, threw a disk of light on the round table beneath it, but the corners of the room were in shadow.  It was in a shaded corner that Craft was sitting, resting his folded arms on his cane, while Sharpman, seated carelessly by the table, was toying with a pencil.  There were pleased looks on the faces of both men; but old Simon seemed to have grown thinner and feebler during the summer months, and his cough troubled him greatly.

Sharpman was saying:  “If we can succeed in managing the boy, now, as well as we have managed the mother, I think we are all right.  I somewhat fear the effect of your presence on him, Craft, but he may as well see you to-night as later.  You must keep cool, and be gentle; don’t let him think you are here for any purpose but his good.”

“Oh! you may trust me, Mr. Sharpman,” responded the old man, “you may trust me.  I shall get into the spirit of the scheme very nicely.”

“What kind of a boy is he, any way?  Pretty clear-headed?”