When court opened on Saturday morning, all the persons interested in the Burnham suit were present, and the court-room was crowded to even a greater extent than it had been on the previous day. Sharpman began the proceedings by offering in evidence the files of the Register’s court, showing the date of Robert Burnham’s death, the issuing of letters of administration to his widow, and the inventory and appraisement of his personal estate.

Then he called Simon Craft to the witness-stand. There was a stir of excitement in the room; every one was curious to see this witness and to hear his evidence.

The old man did not present an unfavorable appearance, as he sat, leaning on his cane, dressed in his new black suit, waiting for the examination to begin. He looked across the bar into the faces of the people with the utmost calmness. He was perfectly at his ease. He knew that what he was about to tell was absolutely true in all material respects, and this fact inspired him with confidence in his ability to tell it effectually. It relieved him, also, of the necessity for that constant evasion and watchfulness which had characterized his efforts as a witness in other cases.

The formal questions relating to his residence, age, occupation, etc., were answered with alacrity.

Then Sharpman, pointing to Ralph, asked the witness:

“Do you know this boy?”

“I do,” answered Craft, unhesitatingly.

“What is his name?”

“Ralph Burnham.”

“When did you first see him?”

“On the night of May 13, 1859.”

“Under what circumstances?”

This question, as by previous arrangement between attorney and witness, opened up the way for a narration of facts, and old Simon, clearing his throat, leaned across the railing of the witness-box and began.

He related in detail, and with much dramatic effect, the scenes at the accident, his rescue of the boy, his effort at the time to find some one to whom he belonged, and the ride into the city afterward. He corroborated conductor Merrick’s story of the meeting on the train which carried the rescued passengers, and related the conversation which passed between them, as nearly as he could remember it.

He told of his attempts to find the child’s friends during the few days that followed, then of the long and desperate illness from which he suffered as a result of his exertion and exposure on the night of the accident. From that point, he went on with an account of his continued care for the child, of his incessant search for clews to the lad’s identity, of his final success, of Ralph’s unaccountable disappearance, and of his own regret and disappointment thereat.

He said that the lad had grown into his affections to so great an extent, and his sympathy for the child’s parents was such, that he could not let him go in that way, and so he started out to find him.

He told how he traced him from one point to another, until he was taken up by the circus wagon, how the scent was then lost, and how the boy’s whereabouts remained a mystery to him, until the happy discovery at the tent in Scranton.

“Well,” said Sharpman, “when you had found the boy, what did you do?”

“I went, the very next day,” was the reply, “to Robert Burnham to tell him that his son was living.”

“What conversation did you have with him?”

“I object,” interposed Goodlaw, “to evidence of any alleged conversation between this witness and Robert Burnham. Counsel should know better than to ask for it.”

“The question is not a proper one,” said the judge.

“Well,” continued Sharpman, “as a result of that meeting what were you to do?”

“I was to bring his son to him the following day.”

“Did you bring him?”

“I did not.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Burnham died that night.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to you for advice.”

“In pursuance of that advice, did you have an interview with the boy Ralph?”

“I did.”

“Where?”

“At your office.”

“Did you explain to him the facts concerning his parentage and history?”

“They were explained to him.”

“What did he say he wished you to do for him?”

Goodlaw interrupted again, to object to the testimony offered as incompetent and thereupon ensued an argument between counsel, which was cut short by the judge ordering the testimony to be excluded, and directing a bill of exceptions to be sealed for the plaintiff.

The hour for the noon recess had now come, and court was adjourned to meet again at two o’clock.

When the afternoon session was called, Sharpman announced that he was through with the direct examination of Craft.

Then Goodlaw took the witness in hand. He asked many questions about Craft’s personal history, about the wreck, and about the rescue of the child. He demanded a full account of the way in which Robert Burnham had been discovered, by the witness and found to be Ralph’s father. He called for the explicit reason for every opinion given, but Old Simon was on safe ground, and his testimony remained unshaken.

Finally, Goodlaw asked:

“What is your occupation, Mr. Craft?” and Craft answered: “I have no occupation at present, except to see that this boy gets his rights.”

“What was your occupation during the time that this boy lived with you?”

“I was a travelling salesman.”

“What did you sell?”

“Jewelry, mostly.”

“For whom did you sell the jewelry?”

“For myself, and others who employed me.”

“Where did you obtain the goods you sold?”

“Some of it I bought, some of it I sold on commission.”

“Of whom did you buy it?”

“Sometimes I bought it at auction, or at sheriff’s sales; sometimes of private parties; sometimes of manufacturers and wholesalers.”

Goodlaw rose to his feet. “Now, as a matter of fact, sir,” he said, sternly, “did not you retail goods through the country that had been furnished to you by your confederates in crime? and was not your house in the city a place for the reception of stolen wares?”

Craft’s cane came to the floor with a sharp rap. “No, sir!” he replied, with much indignation; “I have never harbored thieves, nor sold stolen goods to my knowledge. You insult me, sir!”

Goodlaw resumed his seat, looked at some notes in pencil on a slip of paper, and then resumed the examination.

“Did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?” he asked.

“Well, you see, we had pretty hard work sometimes to get along and get enough to eat, and

“I say, did you send this boy out on the streets to beg?”

“Well, I’m telling you that sometimes we had either to beg or to starve. Then the boy went out and asked aid from wealthy people.”

“Did you send him?”

“Yes, I did; but not against his will.”

“Did you sometimes whip him for not bringing back money to you from his begging excursions?”

“I punished him once or twice for telling falsehoods to me.”

“Did you beat him for not bringing money to you when you sent him out to beg?”

“He came home once or twice when I had reason to believe that he had made no effort to procure assistance for us, and

Goodlaw rose to his feet again.

“Answer my question!” he exclaimed. “Did you beat this boy for not bringing back money to you when you had sent him out to beg?”

“Yes, I did,” replied Craft, now thoroughly aroused, “and I’d do it again, too, under the same circumstances.”

Then he was seized with a fit of coughing that racked his feeble body from head to foot. A tipstaff brought him a glass of water, and he finally recovered.

Goodlaw continued, sarcastically,

“When you found it necessary to correct this boy by the gentle persuasion of force, what kind of a weapon did you use?”

The witness answered, mildly enough, “I had a little strip of leather that I used when it was unavoidably necessary.”

“A rawhide, was it?”

“I said a little strip of leather. You can call it what you choose.”

“Was it the kind of a strip of leather commonly known as a rawhide?”

“It was.”

“What other mode of punishment did you practise on this child besides rawhiding him?”

“I can’t recall any.”

“Did you pull his ears?”

“Probably.”

“Pinch his flesh?”

“Sometimes.”

“Pull his hair?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Knock him down with your fist?”

“No, sir! never, never!”

“Did you never strike him with the palm of your hand?”

“Well, I have slapped him when my patience with him has been exhausted.”

“Did any of these slaps ever happen to push him over?”

“Why, he used to tumble onto the floor sometimes, to cry and pretend he was hurt.”

“Well, what other means of grandfatherly persuasion did you use in correcting the child?”

“I don’t know of any.”

“Did you ever lock him up in a dark closet?”

“I think I did, once or twice; yes.”

“For how long at a time?”

“Oh, not more than an hour or two.”

“Now, didn’t you lock him up that way once, and keep him locked up all day and all night?”

“I think not so long as that. He was unusually stubborn. I told him he could come out as soon as he would promise obedience. He remained in there of his own accord.”

“Appeared to like it, did he?”

“I can’t say as to that.”

“For how long a time did you say he stayed there?”

“Oh, I think from one afternoon till the next.”

“Did he have anything to eat during that time?”

“I promised him abundance if he would do as I told him.”

“Did he have anything to eat?” emphatically.

“No!” just as emphatically.

“What was it he refused to do?”

“Simply to go on a little errand for me.”

“Where?”

“To the house of a friend.”

“For what purpose?”

“To get some jewelry.”

“Was the jewelry yours?”

“I expected to purchase it.”

“Had it been stolen?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did the boy think it had been stolen?”

“He pretended to.”

“Was that the reason he would not go?”

“It was the reason he gave.”

“Have the city police found stolen goods on your premises?”

“They have confiscated goods that were innocently purchased by me; they have robbed me.”

“Did you compel this boy to lie to the officers when they came?”

“I made him hold his tongue.”

“Did you make him lie?”

“I ordered him not to tell where certain goods were stored in the house, on pain of being thrashed within an inch of his life. The goods were mine, bought with my money, and it was none of their business where they were.”

“Did you not command the boy to say that there were no such goods in the house?”

“I don’t know perhaps; I was exasperated at the outrage they were perpetrating in the name of law.”

“Then you did make him lie?”

“Yes, if you call it lying to protect your own property from robbers, I did make him lie!”

“More than once?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did you make him steal?”

“I made him take what belonged to us.”

“Did you make him steal, I say!”

“Call it what you like!” shouted the angered and excited old man. He had become so annoyed and harassed by this persistent, searching cross-examination that he was growing reckless and telling the truth in spite of himself. Besides, it seemed to him that Goodlaw must know all about Ralph’s life with him, and he dared not go far astray in his answers.

But the lawyer knew only what Craft himself was disclosing. He based each question on the answers that had preceded it, long practice having enabled him to estimate closely what was lying in the mind of the witness.

“And so,” continued Goodlaw, “when you returned from one of your trips into the country you found that the boy had disappeared?”

“He had.”

“Were you surprised at that?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Had you any idea why he went away?”

“None whatever. He was well fed and clothed and cared for.”

“Did it ever occur to you that the Almighty made some boys with hearts so honest that they had rather starve and die by the roadside than be made to lie and steal at home?”

The old man did not answer, he was too greatly surprised and angered to reply.

“Well,” said Sharpman, calmly, “I don’t know, if your Honor please, that the witness is bound to be sufficiently versed in the subject of Christian ethics to answer questions of that kind.”

“He need not answer it,” said the judge.

Then Sharpman continued, more vehemently: “The cross-examination, as conducted by the eminent counsel, has, thus far, been simply an outrage on professional courtesy. I ask now that the gentleman be confined to questions which are germane to the issue and decently put.”

“I have but a few more questions to ask,” said Goodlaw.

Turning to the witness again, he continued: “If you succeed in establishing this boy’s identity, you will have a bill to present for care and moneys expended and services performed on his account, will you not?”

“I expect so; yes, sir.”

“As the service continued through a period of years, the bill will amount now to quite a large sum, I presume?”

“Yes, I nave done a good deal for the boy.”

“You expect to retain the usual commission for your services as guardian, do you not?”

“I do.”

“And to control the moneys and properties that may come into your hands?”

“Well yes.”

“About how much money, all together, do you expect to make out of this estate?”

“I do not look on it in that light, sir; I am taking these proceedings simply to compel you and your client to give that boy his rights.”

This impudent assertion angered Goodlaw, who well knew the object of the plot, and he rose from his chair, saying deliberately:

“Do you mean to swear that this is not a deep-laid scheme on the part of you and your attorney to wrest from this estate enough to make a fortune for you both? Do you mean to say mat you care as much for this boy’s rights as you do for the dust in your path?”

Craft’s face paled, and Sharpman started to his feet, red with passion.

This is the last straw! he exclaimed, hoarsely; now I intend

But the judge, fearing an uncontrollable outbreak of temper, interrupted him, saying:

“Your witness need not answer the question in that form, Mr. Sharpman. Mr. Goodlaw, do you desire to cross-examine the witness further?”

Goodlaw had resumed his seat and was turning over his papers.

“I do not care to take up the time of the court any longer,” he said, “with this witness.”

“Then, Mr. Sharpman, you may proceed with further evidence.”

But Sharpman was still smarting from the blow inflicted by his opponent. “I desire, first,” he said, “that the court shall take measures to protect me and my client from the unfounded and insulting charges of counsel for the defence.”

“We will see,” said the judge, “that no harm comes to you or to your cause from irrelevant matter interjected by counsel. But let us get on with the case. We are taking too much time.”

Sharpman turned again to his papers and called the name of “Anthony Henderson.”

An old man arose in the audience, and made his way feebly to the witness-stand, which had just been vacated by Craft.

After he had been sworn, he said, in reply to questions by Sharpman, that he was a resident of St. Louis; that in May, 1859, he was on his way east with his little grandson, and went down with the train that broke through the bridge at Cherry Brook.

He said that before the crash came he had noticed a lady and gentleman sitting across the aisle from him, and a nurse and child a few seats further ahead; that his attention had been called to the child particularly, because he was a boy and about the age of his own little grandson.

He said he was on the train that carried the rescued passengers to Philadelphia after the accident, and that, passing through the car, he had seen the same child who had been with the nurse now sitting with an old man; he was sure the child was the same, as he stopped and looked at him closely. The features of the old man he could not remember. For two days he searched for his grandson, but being met, on every hand, by indisputable proof that the child had perished in the wreck, he then started on his return journey to St. Louis, and had not since been east until the week before the trial.

“How did the plaintiff in this case find you out?” asked Goodlaw, on cross-examination.

“I found him out,” replied the witness. “I learned, from the newspapers, that the trial was to take place; and, seeing that it related to the Cherry Brook disaster, I came here to learn what little else I might in connection with my grandchild’s death. I went, first, to see the counsel for the plaintiff and his client.”

“Have you learned anything new about your grandson?”

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Have you heard from him since the accident?”

“I have not.”

“Are you sure he is dead?”

“I have no doubt of it.”

“Can you recognize this boy,” pointing to Ralph, “as the one whom you saw with the nurse and afterward with the old man on the night of the accident?”

“Oh, no! he was a mere baby at that time.”

“Are you positive that the boy in court is not your grandson?”

“Perfectly positive, there is not the slightest resemblance.”

“That will do.”

The cross-examination had done little more than to strengthen the direct testimony. Mrs. Burnham had thrown aside her veil and gazed intently at the witness from the moment he went on the stand. She recognized him as the man who sat across the aisle from her, with his grandchild, on the night of the disaster, and she knew that he was telling the truth. There seemed to be no escape from the conclusion that it was her child who went down to the city that night with Simon Craft. Was it her child who escaped from him, and wandered, sick and destitute, almost to her own door? Her thought was interrupted by the voice of Sharpman, who had faced the crowded court-room and was calling the name of another witness: “Richard Lyon!”

A young man in short jacket and plaid trousers took the witness-stand.

“What is your occupation?” asked Sharpman, after the man had given his name and residence.

“I’m a driver for Farnum an’ Furkison.”

“Who are Farnum and Furkison?”

“They run the Great European Circus an’ Menagerie.”

“Have you ever seen this boy before?” pointing to Ralph.

“Yes, sir.”

“When?”

“Three years ago this summer.”

“Where?”

“Down in Pennsylvania. It was after we left Bloomsburg, I think, I picked ‘im up along the road an’ give ’im a ride on the tiger wagon.”

“How long did he stay with you?”

“Oh, I don’t remember; four or five days, maybe.”

“What did he do?”

“Well, not much; chored around a little.”

“Did he tell you where he came from?”

“No, nor he wouldn’t tell his name. Seemed to be afraid somebody’d ketch ’im; I couldn’t make out who. He talked about some one he called Gran’pa Craft two or three times w’en he was off his guard, an’ I reckoned from what he said that he come from Philadelphy.”

“Where did he leave you?”

“Didn’t leave us at all. We left him; played the desertion act on ’im.”

“Where?”

“At Scranton.”

“Why?”

“Well, he wasn’t much use to us, an’ he got sick an’ couldn’t do anything, an’ the boss wouldn’t let us take ’im no further, so we left ’im there.”

“Are you sure this is the boy?”

“Oh, yes! positive. He’s bigger, an’ looks better now, but he’s the same boy, I know he is.”

“Cross-examine.”

This last remark was addressed to the defendant’s attorney.

“I have no questions to ask,” said Goodlaw, “I have no doubt the witness tells the truth.”

“That’s all,” said Sharpman, quickly; then, turning again toward the court-room, he called:

“William Buckley!”

Bachelor Billy arose from among the crowds on the front benches, and made his way awkwardly around the aisle and up to the witness-stand. After the usual preliminary questions had been asked and answered, he waited, looking out over the multitude of faces turned toward him, while Sharpman consulted his notes.

“Do you know this boy?” the lawyer asked, pointing to Ralph.

“Do I know that boy?” repeated Billy, pointing also to Ralph, “’deed I do that. I ken ’im weel.”

“When did you first see him?”

“An he’s the son o’ Robert Burnham, I seen ‘im first i’ the arms o’ ‘is mither a matter o’ ten year back or so. She cam’ t’ the breaker on a day wi’ her gude mon, an’ she had the bairnie in her arms. Ye’ll remember it, na doot, Mistress Burnham, turning to that lady as he spoke, how ye said to me Billy, said ye, saw ye ever so fine a baby as

“Well, never mind that,” interrupted Sharpman; “when did you next see the boy?”

“Never till I pickit ‘im up o’ the road.”

“And when was that?”

“It’ll be three year come the middle o’ June. I canna tell ye the day.”

“On what road was it?”

“I’ll tell ye how it cam’ aboot. It was the mornin’ after the circus. I was a-comin’ doon fra Providence, an’ when I got along the ither side o’ whaur the tents was I see a bit lad a-layin’ by the roadside, sick. It was him,” pointing to Ralph and smiling kindly on him, “it was Ralph yonner. I says to ’im, ‘What’s the matter wi’ ye, laddie?’ says I. ‘I’m sick,’ says ’e, ‘an’ they’ve goned an’ lef me.’ ’Who’s lef’ ye?’ says I. ‘The circus,’ says he. ‘An’ ha’ ye no place to go?’ says I. ‘No,’ says ’e, ‘I ain’t; not any.’ So I said t’ the lad as he s’ould come along wi’ me. He could na walk, he was too sick, I carried ‘im, but he was no’ much o’ a load. I took ‘im hame wi’ me an’ pit ‘im i’ the bed. He got warse, an’ I bringit the doctor. Oh! but he was awfu’ sick, the lad was, but he pullit through as cheerfu’ as ye please. An’ the Widow Maloney she ’tended ’im like a mither, she did.”

“Did you find out where he came from?”

“Wull, he said little aboot ‘imsel’ at the first, he was a bit afraid to talk wi’ strangers, but he tellit, later on, that he cam’ fra Philadelphy. He tellit me, in fact,” said Billy, in a burst of confidence, “that ‘e rin awa’ fra th’auld mon, Simon Craft, him that’s a-settin’ yonner. But it’s small blame to the lad; ye s’ould na lay that up again’ ’im. He had to do it, look ye! had ye not, eh, Ralph?”

Before Ralph could reply, Sharpman interrupted: “And has the boy been with you ever since?”

“He has that, an’ I could na think o’ his goin’ awa’ noo, an it would na be for his gret good.”

“In your intercourse with the boy through three years, have you noticed in him any indications of higher birth than is usually found among the boys who work about the mines? I mean, do his manners, modes of thought, impulses, expressions, indicate, to your mind, better blood than ordinary?”

“Why, yes,” replied the witness, slowly grasping the idea, “yes. He has a way wi’ ’im, the lad has, that ye’d think he did na belong amang such as we. He’s as gentle as a lass, an’ that lovin’, why, he’s that lovin’ that ye could na speak sharp till ’im an ye had need to. But ye’ll no’ need to, Mistress Burnham, ye’ll no’ need to.”

The lady was sitting with her veil across her face, smiling now and then, wiping away a tear or two, listening carefully to catch every word.

Then the witness was turned over to the counsel for the defence, for cross-examination.

“What else has the boy done or said to make you think he is of gentler birth than his companions in the breaker?” asked Goodlaw, somewhat sarcastically.

“Why, the lad does na swear nor say bad words.”

“What else?”

“He’s tidy wi’ the clothes, an’ he wull be clean.”

“What else?”

“What else? wull, they be times when he says things to ye so quick like, so bright like, so lofty like, ‘at ye’d mos’ think he was na human like the rest o’ us. An’ ‘e fears naught, ye canna mak’ ’im afeard o’ doin’ what’s richt. D’ye min’ the time ’e jumpit on the carriage an’ went doon wi’ the rest o’ them to bring oot the burnit uns? an’ cam’ up alive when Robert Burnham met his death? Ah, mon! no coward chiel ’d ‘a’ done like that.”

“Might not a child of very lowly birth do all the things you speak of under proper training and certain influences?”

“Mayhap, but it’s no’ likely, no’ likely. Hold! wait a bit! I dinna mean but that a poor mon’s childer can be bright, braw, guid boys an’ girls; they be, I ken mony o’ them mysel’. But gin the father an’ the mither think high an’ act gentle an’ do noble, ye’ll fin’ it i’ the blood an’ bone o’ the childer, sure as they’re born. Now, look ye! I kenned Robert Burnham, I kenned ‘im weel. He was kind an’ gentle an’ braw, a-thinkin’ bright things an’ a-doin’ gret deeds. The lad’s like ’im, mind ye; he thinks like ’im, he says like ’im, he does like ’im. Truth, I daur say, i’ the face o’ all o’ ye, that no son was ever more like the father than the lad a-settin’ yonner is like Robert Burnham was afoor the guid Lord took ’im to ’imsel’.”

Bachelor Billy was leaning forward across the railing of the witness-stand, speaking in a voice that could be heard in the remotest corner of the room, emphasizing his words with forceful gesticulation. No one could for a moment doubt his candor and earnestness.

“You are very anxious that the plaintiff should succeed in this suit, are you not?” asked Goodlaw.

“I dinna unnerstan’ ye, sir.”

“You would like to have this boy declared to be a son of Robert Burnham, would you not?”

“For the lad’s sake, yes. But I canna tell ye how it’ll hurt me to lose ’im fra ma bit hame. He’s verrà dear to me, the lad is.”

“Have you presented any bill to Ralph’s guardian for services to the boy?”

“Bill! I ha’ no bill.”

“Do you not propose to present such a bill in case the plaintiff is successful in this suit?”

“I tell ye, mon, I ha’ no bill. The child’s richt welcome to all that I ‘a’ ever done for ’im. It’s little eneuch to be sure, but he’s welcome to it, an’ so’s ‘is father an’ ‘is mother an’ ‘is gardeen; an’ that’s what I tellit Muster Sharpman ‘imsel’. An the lad’s as guid to them as ‘e has been wi’ me, they’ll unnerstan’ as how his company’s a thing ye canna balance wi’ gold an’ siller.”

Mrs. Burnham leaned over to Goodlaw and whispered something to him. He nodded, smiled and said to the witness: “That’s all, Mr. Buckley,” and Bachelor Billy came down from the stand and pushed his way back to a seat among the people.

There was a whispered conversation for a few moments between Sharpman and his client, and then the lawyer said:

“We desire to recall Mrs. Burnham for one or two more questions. Will you be kind enough to take the stand, Mrs. Burnham?”

The lady arose and went again to the witness-stand.

Craft was busy with his leather hand-bag. He had taken a parcel therefrom, unwrapped it and laid it on the table. It was the cloak that Old Simon had shown to Robert Burnham on the day of the mine disaster. Sharpman took it up, shook it out, carried it to Mrs. Burnham, and placed it in her hands.

“Do you recognize this cloak?” he asked.

A sudden pallor overspread her face. She could not speak. She was holding the cloak up before her eyes, gazing on it in mute astonishment.

“Do you recognize it, madam?” repeated Sharpman.

“Why, sir!” she said, at last, “it is it was Ralph’s. He wore it the night of the disaster.” She was caressing the faded ribbons with her hand; the color was returning to her face.

“And this, Mrs. Burnham, do you recognize this?” inquired the lawyer, advancing with the cap.

“It was Ralph’s!” she exclaimed, holding out her hands eagerly to grasp it. “It was his cap. May I have it, sir? May I have them both? I have nothing, you know, that he wore that night.”

She was bending forward, looking eagerly at Sharpman, with flushed face and eyes swimming in tears.

“Perhaps so, madam,” he said, “perhaps; they go with the boy. If we succeed in restoring your son to you, we shall give you these things also.”

“What else have you that he wore?” she asked, impatiently. “Oh! did you find the locket, a little gold locket? He wore it with a chain round his neck; it had his his father’s portrait in it.”

Without a word, Sharpman placed the locket in her hands. Her fingers trembled so that she could hardly open it. Then the gold covers parted and revealed to her the pictured face of her dead husband. The eyes looked up at her kindly, gently, lovingly, as they had always looked on her in life. After a moment her lips trembled, her eyes filled with tears, she drew the veil across her face, and her frame grew tremulous with deep emotion.

“I do not think it is necessary,” said Sharpman, courteously, “to pain the witness with other questions. I regard the identification of these articles, by her, as sufficiently complete. We will excuse her from further examination.”

The lady left the stand with bowed head and veiled face, and Conductor Merrick was recalled.

“Look at that cloak and the cap,” said Sharpman, “and tell me if they are the articles worn by the child who was going to the city with this old man after the accident.”

“To the best of my recollection,” said the witness, “they are the same. I noticed the cloak particularly on account of the hole burned out of the front of it. I considered it an indication of a very narrow escape.”

The witness was turned over to the defence for cross-examination.

“No questions,” said Goodlaw, shortly, gathering up his papers as if his defeat was already an accomplished fact.

“Mr. Craft,” said Sharpman, “stand up right where you are. I want to ask you one question. Did the child whom you rescued from the wreck have on, when you found him, this cap, cloak, and locket?”

“He did.”

“And is the child whom you rescued that night from the burning car this boy who is sitting beside you here to-day?”

“They are one and the same.”

Mrs. Burnham threw back her veil, looked steadily across at Ralph, then started to her feet, and moved slightly toward him as if to clasp him in her arms. For a moment it seemed as though there was to be a scene. The people in the audience bent forward eagerly to look into the bar, those in the rear of the room rising to their feet.

The noise seemed to startle her, and she sank back into her chair and sat there white and motionless during the remainder of the session.

Sharpman arose. “I believe that is our case,” he said.

“Then you rest here?” asked the judge.

“We rest.”

His Honor continued: “It is now adjourning time and Saturday night. I think it would be impossible to conclude this case, even by holding an evening session; but perhaps we can get through with the testimony so that witnesses may be excused. What do you say, Mr. Goodlaw?”

Goodlaw arose. “It may have been apparent to the court,” he said, “that the only effort being put forth by the defence in this case is an effort to learn as much of the truth as possible. We have called no witnesses to contradict the testimony offered, and we expect to call none. But, lest something should occur of which we might wish to take advantage, we ask that the evidence be not closed until the meeting of court on Monday next.”

“Is that agreeable to you, Mr. Sharpman?” inquired the judge.

“Perfectly,” replied that lawyer, his face beaming with good nature. He knew that Goodlaw had given up the case and that his path was now clear.

“Then, crier,” said the judge, “you may adjourn the court until Monday next, at two o’clock in the afternoon.”