“Do you know this boy?” the lawyer asked, pointing to Ralph.

“Do I know that boy?” repeated Billy, pointing also to Ralph, “’deed I do that.  I ken ’im weel.”

“When did you first see him?”

“An he’s the son o’ Robert Burnham, I seen ‘im first i’ the arms o’ ‘is mither a matter o’ ten year back or so.  She cam’ t’ the breaker on a day wi’ her gude mon, an’ she had the bairnie in her arms.  Ye’ll remember it, na doot, Mistress Burnham,” turning to that lady as he spoke, “how ye said to me ‘Billy,’ said ye, ’saw ye ever so fine a baby as’”—­

“Well, never mind that,” interrupted Sharpman; “when did you next see the boy?”

“Never till I pickit ‘im up o’ the road.”

“And when was that?”

“It’ll be three year come the middle o’ June.  I canna tell ye the day.”

“On what road was it?”

“I’ll tell ye how it cam’ aboot.  It was the mornin’ after the circus.  I was a-comin’ doon fra Providence, an’ when I got along the ither side o’ whaur the tents was I see a bit lad a-layin’ by the roadside, sick.  It was him,” pointing to Ralph and smiling kindly on him, “it was Ralph yonner.  I says to ’im, ‘What’s the matter wi’ ye, laddie?’ says I.  ‘I’m sick,’ says ’e, ‘an’ they’ve goned an’ lef me.’  ’Who’s lef’ ye?’ says I.  ‘The circus,’ says he.  ‘An’ ha’ ye no place to go?’ says I.  ‘No,’ says ’e, ‘I ain’t; not any.’  So I said t’ the lad as he s’ould come along wi’ me.  He could na walk, he was too sick, I carried ‘im, but he was no’ much o’ a load.  I took ‘im hame wi’ me an’ pit ‘im i’ the bed.  He got warse, an’ I bringit the doctor.  Oh! but he was awfu’ sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu’ as ye please.  An’ the Widow Maloney she ’tended ’im like a mither, she did.”

“Did you find out where he came from?”

“Wull, he said little aboot ‘imsel’ at the first, he was a bit afraid to talk wi’ strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam’ fra Philadelphy.  He tellit me, in fact,” said Billy, in a burst of confidence, “that ‘e rin awa’ fra th’auld mon, Simon Craft, him that’s a-settin’ yonner.  But it’s small blame to the lad; ye s’ould na lay that up again’ ’im.  He had to do it, look ye! had ye not, eh, Ralph?”

Before Ralph could reply, Sharpman interrupted:  “And has the boy been with you ever since?”

“He has that, an’ I could na think o’ his goin’ awa’ noo, an it would na be for his gret good.”

“In your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found among the boys who work about the mines?  I mean, do his manners, modes of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better blood than ordinary?”

“Why, yes,” replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, “yes.  He has a way wi’ ’im, the lad has, that ye’d think he did na belong amang such as we.  He’s as gentle as a lass, an’ that lovin’, why, he’s that lovin’ that ye could na speak sharp till ’im an ye had need to.  But ye’ll no’ need to, Mistress Burnham, ye’ll no’ need to.”