ul memories. Receiving no answer to his question, he
continued:--

"But the boy, the boy Ralph, he perished, didn't he? Was burned up in
the wreck, wasn't he?"

"Stop!" exclaimed Burnham. "You have said enough. If you have any
object in repeating this harrowing story, let me know what it is at
once; if not, I have no time to listen to you further."

"I have an object," replied Craft, deliberately, "a most important
object, which I will disclose to you if you will be good enough to
answer my question. Your boy Ralph was burned up in the wreck at
Cherry Bridge, wasn't he?"

"Yes, he was. That is our firm belief; what then?"

"Simply this, that you are mistaken."

"What do you mean?"

"Your boy is not dead."

Burnham started to his feet, unable for the moment to speak. His face
took on a sudden pallor, then a smile of incredulity settled on his
lips.

"You are wild," he said; "the child perished; we have abundant proof
of it."

"I say the child is not dead," persisted the old man; "I saw
him--yesterday."

"Then, bring him to me. Bring him to me and I will believe you."

Burnham had settled down into his chair with a look of weary
hopelessness on his face.

"You have no faith in me," said Craft. "Mere perversity might make you
fail to recognize the child. Suppose I show you further proofs of the
truth of what I say."

"Very well; produce them."

The old man bent down, took his leather hand-bag from the floor, and
placed it on the table before him. The exertion brought on a spasm of
coughing. When he had recovered from this, he drew an old wallet from
his pocket and took from it a key, with which he unlocked the satchel.
Then, drawing forth a package and untying and unrolling it, he shook
it out and held it up for Robert Burnham to look at. It was a little
flannel cloak. It had once been white, but it was sadly stained
and soiled now. The delicate ribbons that had ornamented it were
completely faded, and out of the front a great hole had been burned,
the edges of which were still black and crumbling.

"Do you recognize it?" asked the old man.

Burnham seized it with both hands.

"It is his!" he exclaimed. "It is Ralph's! He wore it that day. Where
did you get it? Where did you get it, I say?"

Craft did not reply. He was searching in his hand-bag for something
else. Finally he drew out a child's cap, a quaint little thing of
velvet and lace, and laid it on the table.

This, too, was grasped by Bu