“Yes, sir, I am.  You’ll do everything you can for me, won’t you? as quick as you can?”

“Oh, yes!  Mr. Craft will be your guardian, and I will be his bondsman and lawyer.  Now, I think we understand each other, and I guess that’s all for to-night.”

“When do you want me to come again?”

“Well, I shall want you to go to Wilkesbarre with me in a few days, to have the appointment of guardian made; but I will send for you.  In the meantime you will keep on with your work as usual, and say nothing to any person about what we have told you.  You’ll do that, won’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I will.  But, Uncle Billy—­can’t I tell him? he’ll be awful glad to know.”

“Well, yes, you may tell Billy, but charge him to keep it a profound secret.”

“Oh! he will, he will; he’ll do anything like that ’at I ask ’im to.”

Ralph picked up his cap and turned to go; he hesitated a moment, then he crossed the room to where old Simon still sat, and, standing before him, he said:—­

“I’m sorry you’re sick, Gran’pa Simon.  I never meant to do wrong by you.  I’ll try to do w’at’s right, after this, anyway.”

The old man, taken by surprise, had no answer ready; and Sharpman, seeing that the situation was likely to become awkward, stepped forward and said:  “Oh!  I’ve no doubt he’ll be all we can desire now.”

He took the boy’s hand, and led him toward the door.  “I see my clerk has gone,” he said; “are you afraid to go home alone?”

“Oh, no!  It’s moonlight; an’ besides, I’ve gone home alone lot’s o’ nights.”

“Well, good luck to you!  Good-night!”

“Good-night!”

The office door closed behind the boy, and he went out into the street and turned toward home.

The moon was bright and full, and a delicate mist hung close to the earth.  It was a very beautiful night.  Ralph thought he had never seen so beautiful a night before.  His own footsteps had a musical sound in his ears, as he hurried along, impatient to reach Bachelor Billy, and to tell to him the wonderful news,—­news so wonderful that he could scarcely realize or comprehend it.  Mr. Sharpman said he would be going back home to-night with a heart as light as a feather.  And so he was, was he not?  He asked his heart the question, but, somehow, it would not say yes.  There was a vague uneasiness within him that he could not quite define.  It was not because he doubted that he was Mrs. Burnham’s son; he believed that fact implicitly.  It was not so much, either, that he could not go to her at once; he could wait for that if the end would only surely bring it.  But it seemed to him that he was being set up in a kind of opposition to her; that he was being placed in a position which might lead to an estrangement between them:  and that would be a very sad result, indeed, of this effort to establish his identity.  But Mr. Sharpman had assured him that Mrs. Burnham approved of the action that was