“We were.”

“And the nurse lost her life?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long was it after the accident before you began the search for your child?”

“It was nearly three days afterward before we were sufficiently recovered to be able to do anything.”

“Did you find any trace of him?”

“None whatever.”

“Any clothing or jewelry?”

“Only a few trinkets in the ashes of the wreck.”

“Is it your belief that Ralph perished in that disaster?”

“It is; yes, sir.”

“Would it take strong evidence to convince you to the contrary?”

“I think it would.”

“Ralph,” said Sharpman, turning to the boy, “stand up!”

The lad arose.

“Have you seen this boy before?” continued the lawyer, addressing the witness again.

“I have,” she replied, “on several occasions.”

“Are you familiar with his face, his expression, his manner?”

“To a great extent—­yes, sir.”

“Do you recognize him as your son Ralph?”

She looked down, long and searchingly, into the boy’s face, and then replied, deliberately, “No, sir, I do not.”

“That is all, Mrs. Burnham.”

Ralph was surprised and disappointed.  He had not quite expected this.  He had thought she would say, perhaps, that she would receive him as her son when his claim was duly proven.  He would not have wondered at that, but that she should positively, under oath, deny their relationship to each other, had not been to him, before, within the range of possibility.  His brightness and enthusiasm were quenched in a moment, and a chill crept up to his heart, as he saw the lady come down from the witness-stand, throw her widow’s veil across her face, and resume her seat at the table.  The case had taken on a new, strange, harsh aspect in his sight.  It seemed to him that a barrier had been suddenly erected between him and the lady whom he had learned to love as his mother; a barrier which no verdict of the jury or judgment of the court, even though he should receive them, would help him to surmount.

Of what use were these things, if motherly recognition was to be denied him?  He began to feel that it would be almost better to go back at once to the not unpleasant home with Bachelor Billy, than to try to grasp something which, it now seemed, was lying beyond his reach.

He was just considering the advisability of crossing over to Sharpman and suggesting to him that he was willing to drop the proceedings, when that person called another witness to the stand.  This was a heavily built man, with close-cropped beard, bronzed face, and one sleeve empty of its arm.  He gave his name as William B. Merrick, and said that he was conductor of the train that broke through the Cherry Brook bridge, on the night of May 13, 1859.

“Did you see, on your train that night,” asked Sharpman, “the witness who has just left the stand?”