But it would not greatly matter, she thought, if it should chance that Ralph was not her son.  He was a brave, good boy, worthy of the best that could come to him, and she loved him.  Indeed, during these last few days her heart had gone out to him with an affection so strange and a desire so strong that she felt that only his presence could satisfy it.  She could not be glad enough that the trial, now so nearly to its close, would result in giving to her a son.  It was a strange defeat, indeed, to cause her such rejoicing.  On this peaceful Sunday morning her mind was full with plans for the lad’s comfort, for his happiness and his education.  But the more she thought upon him the greater grew her longing to have him with her, the harder it became to repress her strong desire to see him, to speak to him, to kiss his face, to hold him in her arms.  In the quiet of the afternoon this longing became more intense.  She tried to put it away from her, but it would not go; she tried to reason it down, but the boy’s face, rising always in her thought, refuted all her logic.  She felt that he must come to her, that she must see him, if only long enough to look into his eyes, to touch his hand, to welcome him and say good-by.  She called the coachmen then, and sent him for the boy, and waited at the window to catch the first glimpse of him when he should appear.

He came at last, and she met him in the hall.  It was a welcome such as he had never dreamed of.  They went into a beautiful room, and she drew his chair so close to hers that she could hold his hands, and smooth his hair back now and then, and look down into his eyes as she talked with him.  She made him repeat to her the whole story of his life from the time he could remember, and when he told about Bachelor Billy and all his kindness and goodness, he saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

“We’ll remember him,” she said; “we’ll be very good to him always.”

“Mrs. Burnham,” asked Ralph, “do you really an’ truly believe ’at I’m your son?”

She evaded the question skilfully.

“I’m not Mrs. Burnham to you any more,” she said.  “You are my little boy now and I am your mother.  But wait! no; you must not call me ‘mother’ yet, not until the trial is over, then we shall call each other the names we like best, shall we not?”

“Yes; an’ will the trial be over to-morrow, do you think?”

“I hope so.  I shall be glad to have it done; shall not you?”

“Oh, yes; but so long as it’s comin’ out so nice, I don’t care so very much.  It’s all so good now ’at it couldn’t be much better.  I could stan’ it another day or two, I guess.”

“Well, my dear, we will be patient.  It cannot but come out right.  Are you glad you are coming here to live with me, Ralph?”

“Yes, ma’am, I am; I’m very much delighted.  I’ve always wanted a mother; you don’t know how much I’ve wanted a mother; but I never ’xpected—­not till Gran’pa Simon come—­I never ’xpected to get such a lovely one.  You don’t know; I wisht I could tell you; I wisht I could do sumpthin’ so ’at you’d know how glad I am.”