When Ralph went to his work at the breaker on the morning after his return from Wilkesbarre, he was met with curious glances from the men, and wondering looks and abrupt questions from the boys.  It had become generally known that he claimed to be Robert Burnham’s son, and that he was about to institute proceedings, through his guardian, to recover possession of his share of the estate.  There was but little opportunity to interrogate him through the morning hours:  the flow of coal through the chutes was too rapid and constant, and the grinding and crunching of the rollers, and the rumbling and hammering of the machinery, were too loud and incessant.

Ralph worked very diligently too; he was in the mood for work.  He was glad to be at home again and able to work.  It was much better than wandering through the streets of strange towns, without money or friends.  Nor were his hands and eyes less vigilant because of the bright future that lay before him.  He was so certain of the promised luxuries, the beautiful home, the love of mother and sister, the means for education,—­so sure of them all that he felt he could well afford to wait, and to work while waiting.  This toil and poverty would last but a few weeks, or a few months at the longest; after that there would be a lifetime of pleasure and of peace and of satisfied ambitions.

So hope nerved his muscles, and anticipation brought color to his cheeks and fire to his eyes, and the thought of his mother’s kiss lent inspiration to his labor, and no boy that ever worked in Burnham Breaker performed his task with more skill and diligence than he.

When the noon hour came the boys took their dinner-pails and ran down out of the building and over on the hill-side, where they could lie on the clean grass in the warm September sunshine, and eat and talk until the bell should call them again to work.

Here, before the recess was over, Ralph joined them, feeling very conscious, indeed, of his embarrassing position, but determined to brave it out.

Joe Foster set the, ball rolling by asking Ralph how much he had to pay his lawyer.  Some one else followed it up with a question relating to his expectations for the future, and in a very few minutes the boy was the object of a perfect broadside of interrogations.

“Will you have a hoss of your own?” asked Patsey Welch.

“I don’t know,” was the reply; “that depen’s on what my mother’ll think.”

“Oh! she’ll give you one if you want ’im, Mrs. Burnham will,” said another boy; “she’ll give you everything you want; she’s ter’ble good that way, they say.”

“Will you own the breaker, an’ boss us boys?” came a query from another quarter.

Before Ralph could reply to this startling and embarrassing question, some one else asked:—­

“How’d you find out who you was, anyway?”

“Why, my lawyer told me,” was the reply.

“How’d he find out?”