Before they had finished eating, the child came back, saying that she could not find him.  They were not worried about him, though; they thought he had been delayed at court, and would come in on one of the later trains.  So, after supper, Billy lighted his pipe and walked down toward the city, hoping to meet the lad.  He went on until he reached the railroad station.  They told him there that the next train would be in from Wilkesbarre in about an hour.  He concluded to wait for it, so he sat on one of the benches, and watched the people coming and going, and smoked his clay-pipe in comparative comfort.  The train came at last, and the passengers from it crowded through the hall-way, and out into the street.  But among them all Bachelor Billy could not discover Ralph.  He saw Mrs. Burnham coming from the cars, though, and it occurred to him that possibly she might know something about the boy.  She had doubtless come from Wilkesbarre; indeed it was not unlikely that she had been in court.  He did not hesitate to inquire of her; she knew him very well, and always had a kind word for him when she came to see Ralph.

He took off his cap and approached her.  “Beggin’ your pardon, Mistress Burnham,” he said, “but ha’ ye seen aught o’ Ralph?”

The lady stopped in surprise, but in a moment she recognized the man, and, throwing aside her veil, she replied:  “Oh, Billy, is that you?  Ralph, did you say?  I have not seen him.  Why?”

“He went to Wilkesbarre the day, ma’am, an’ he s’ould ‘a’ comit hame sooner, an’ I thocht mayhap ye might ‘a’ rin across the lad, d’ye see.  Pardon me for a-stoppin’ o’ ye.”

The lady still stood, holding her child by the hand.

“Did he go alone?” she asked.

“No, he went doon wi’ Muster Sharpman.”

“And has Mr. Sharpman returned?”

“I did na thenk to ask; that was fulish in me,—­I s’ould ‘a’ gone there first.”

“I think Mr. Sharpman will look after him.  I do not think you need to worry; perhaps it was necessary for them to remain overnight.  But, if Ralph does not come in the morning, you must let me know, and I shall assist you in searching for him.”

“Thank ye, Mistress Burnham, thank ye, kindly!  I canna feel greatly concernit ower the lad, sin’ he’s verra gude at carin’ for himsel’.  But, gin he does na come i’ the mornin’, I s’all mak’ search for ’im.  Here’s James a-waitin’ for ye”; going ahead, as he spoke, to stand by the fretting horses while James held open the carriage door.

“Good-night, Billy!” came from inside the coach as it rolled away; and “Good-night, Billy!” echoed the sweet voice of the child.

“Good-nicht to both o’ ye!” he shouted, standing to watch them until the carriage disappeared into the darkness.

“She’s verra kin’,” he said to himself, as he walked up the street toward home, “verra kin’, but it’s no’ sic a care as the lad’s ane mither s’ould ha’ ower ‘im, an’ he awa’ fra hame i’ the darkness o’ the nicht so.  But she dinna ken, she dinna ken as he be her son.  Coom a day when that’s plain to her, an’ she’d spare naught to save ’im fra the ghost o’ danger.”