kindly face.

He had pondered, too, upon the strange story of the boy Ralph. It had
awakened his interest and aroused his sympathy. He had spoken to his
wife about the lad when he went home at night; and he had taken his
little daughter on his knee and told to her the story of the boy who
worked all day in the breaker, who had no father and no mother, and
whose name was--Ralph! Both wife and daughter had listened eagerly
to the tale, and had made him promise to look carefully to the lad
and help him to some better occupation than the drudgery of the
screen-room.

But he had already resolved to do this, and more. The mystery
surrounding the child's life should be unravelled. Obscure and humble
though his origin might be, he should, at least, bear the name to
which his parentage entitled him. The more he thought on this subject,
the wider grew his intentions concerning the child. His fatherly
nature was aroused and eager for action.

There was something about the lad, too, that reminded him, not so much
of what his own child had been as of what he might have been had he
lived to this boy's age. It was not alone in the name, but something
also in the tone of voice, in the turn of the head, in the look of
the brown eyes; something which struck a chord of memory or hope, and
brought no unfamiliar sound.

The thought pleased him, and he dwelt upon it, and, turning away from
his table with its accumulation of letters and papers, he looked
absently out into the busy street and laid plans for the future of
this boy who had dropped so suddenly into the current of his life.

By and by he heard some one in the outer office inquiring for him.
Then his door was opened, and a stranger entered, an old man in shabby
clothes, leaning on a cane. He was breathing heavily, apparently from
the exertion of climbing the steps at the entrance, and he was no
sooner in the room than he fell into a violent fit of coughing.

He seated himself carefully in a chair at the other side of the table
from Mr. Burnham, placed a well worn leather satchel on the floor by
his side, and laid his cane across it.

When he had recovered somewhat from his shortness of breath, he said:
"Excuse me. A little unusual exertion always brings on a fit of
coughing. This is Mr. Robert Burnham, I suppose?"

"That is my name," answered Burnham, regarding his visitor with some
curiosity.

"Ah! just so; you don't know me, I presume?"

"No, I don't remember to hav