The gentleman was saying:  “I trust you will reach home safely and comfortably.”

And Mrs. Burnham replied:  “Oh, there is no doubt of it, Mr. Goodlaw!  I have telegraphed to James to meet us at the station; we shall be there before nine o’clock.”

“I will see that you are comfortably settled,” he said, as they crossed the room toward the waiting train.

For a moment Ralph stood, wondering and uncertain.  Then there came into his mind a sudden resolution to speak to them, to tell them who he was, and why and how he was here, and ask them to help him.  He started forward, but they were already passing out at the door.  He pushed hurriedly by several people in his effort to overtake them, but the man who stood there punching tickets stopped him.

“Where’s your ticket, sonny?” he asked.

“I ain’t got any,” replied Ralph.

“Then you can’t get out here.”

“But I want to find Mrs. Burnham.”

“Who’s Mrs. Burnham?”

“The lady’t just went out.”

“Has she got a ticket for you?”

“No, but she’d give me money to get one—­I think.”

“Well, I can’t help that; you can’t go out Come, stand aside! you’re blocking up the way.”

The people, crowding by, pushed Ralph back, and he went and sat down on the bench again.

The bell rang, the conductor shouted “All aboard!” and the train moved off.

Ralph’s eyes were full of tears, and his heart was very heavy.  It was not so much because he was friendless and without money that he grieved, but because his mother,—­his own mother,—­had passed him by in his distress and had not helped him.  She had been so close to him that he could almost have put out his hand and touched her dress, and yet she had swept by, in her haste, oblivious of his presence.  He knew, of course, that, if he had spoken to her, or if she had seen and known him, she would gladly have befriended him.  But it was not her assistance that he wanted so much as it was her love.  It was the absence of that sympathy, that devotion, that watchful care over every step he might take, that motherly instinct that ought to have felt his presence though her eyes had been blinded; it was the absence of all this that filled his heart with heaviness.

But he did not linger long in despair; he dashed the tears from his eyes, and began to consider what he should do.  He thought it probable that there would be a later train; and it was barely possible that some one whom he knew might be going up on it.  It occurred to him that Sharpman had said he would be busy in Wilkesbarre all day.  Perhaps he had not gone home yet; if not, he might go on the next train, if there was one.  It was worth while to inquire, at any rate.

“Yes,” said the door-keeper, in answer to Ralph’s question, “there’ll be another train going up at eleven thirty-five.”

“Do you know Mr. Sharpman?” asked the boy, timidly.