“Good-by, Uncle Billy,” he called out, as they started away down the hill.

Bachelor Billy did not answer.  A sudden thought had come to him; a sudden fear had seized him.  He stood for a moment motionless; then he started to run after the retreating carriage, calling as he ran.  They heard him and stopped.  In a minute he had reached them.

“Ralph,” he said, hastily, “ye’re not goin’ now for gude?  Ye’ll coom back the nicht, won’t ye, Ralph?  I couldn’t—­I couldn’t abide to have ye go this way, not for gude.  It’s—­it’s too sudden, d’ye see.”

His voice was trembling with emotion, and the pallor about his lips was heightened by the forced smile that parted them.  Ralph reached out from the buggy and grasped the man’s rough hand.

“I ain’t leavin’ you for good, Uncle Billy,” he said.  “I’m comin’ back agin, sure; I promise I will.  Would you ruther I wouldn’t go, Uncle Billy?”

“Oh, no! ye mus’ go.  I shouldn’t ‘a’ stoppit ye.  It was verra fulish in me.  But ye see,” turning to the driver apologetically, “the lad’s been so long wi’ me it’s hard to part wi’ ‘im.  An’ it cam’ ower me so sudden like, that mayhap he’d not be a-comin’ back, that I—­that I—­wull, wull! it’s a’ richt, ye need na min’ me go on; go on, lad, an’ rich blessin’s go wi’ ye!” and Bachelor Billy turned and walked rapidly away.

This was the only cloud in the otherwise clear sky of Ralph’s happiness.  He would have to leave Bachelor Billy alone.  But he had fully resolved that the man who had so befriended him in the dark days of his adversity should not fail of sharing in the blessings that were now at hand.

His mind was full of plans for his Uncle Billy’s happiness and welfare, as they rode along through the green suburban streets, with the Sunday quiet resting on them, to the House where Ralph’s mother waited, with a full heart, to receive and welcome her son.

She had promised Goodlaw that she would not take the boy to her home until after the conclusion of the trial.  He had explained to her that to anticipate the verdict of the jury in this way might, in a certain event, prejudice not only her interests but her son’s also.  And the time would be so short now that she thought surely she could wait.  She had resolved, indeed, not to see nor to speak to the lad, out of court, until full permission had been granted to her to do so.  Then, when the time came, she would revel in the brightness of his presence.

That there still lingered in her mind a doubt as to his identity was nothing.  She would not think of that.  It was only a prejudice fixed by long years of belief in her child’s death, a prejudice so firmly rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out.