ong years of belief in her child's death, a prejudice so firmly
rooted now that it required an effort to cast it out.

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-m