"There, there, lad! ha' no fear; ye'll no' go back, I'll no' let ye."
The man had Ralph in his arms trying to quiet him.
"But," persisted the boy, "he'll come for me, he'll, make me go. If they find out I'm his gran'son there at the court, they'll tell him to take me, I know they will!"
"But ye're no' his gran'son, Ralph, ye've naught to do wi' 'im. Ye're
Robert Burnham's son."
"Oh, no, Uncle Billy, I ain't, I—" He stopped suddenly. The certain result of disclosing his knowledge to his Uncle Billy flashed warningly across his mind. If Bachelor Billy knew it, Mrs. Burnham must know it; if Mrs. Burnham knew it, Goodlaw and the court must know it, the verdict would be against him, Simon Craft would come to take him back to the terrors of his wretched home, and he would have to go. The law that would deny his claim as Robert Burnham's son would stamp him as the grandson of Simon Craft, and place him again in his cruel keeping.
Oh, no! he must not tell. If there were reasons for keeping silence before, they were increased a hundred-fold by the shadow of this last danger. He felt that he had rather die than go back to live with Simon Craft.
Bachelor Billy was rocking the boy in his arms as he would have rocked a baby.
"There, noo, there, noo, quiet yoursel'," he said, and his voice was very soothing, "quiet yoursel'; ye've naught to dread; it'll a' coom oot richt. What's happenit to ye, Ralph, that ye s'ould be so fearfu'?"
"N—nothin'; I'm tired, that's all. I guess I'll go to bed again."
He went back to bed, but not to sleep. Hot and feverish, and with his mind in a tumult, he tossed about, restlessly, through the long hours of the night. He had decided at last that he could not tell what he had heard at Sharpman's office. The thought of having to return to Simon Craft had settled the matter in his mind. The other reasons for his silence he had lost sight of now; this last one outweighed them all, and placed a seal upon his tongue that he felt must not be broken.