Thus the fight began again, and the battle in the boy's heart went on with renewed earnestness. He gave to his conscience, one by one, the reasons that he had for acting the part of Robert Burnham's son; good reasons they were too, overwhelmingly convincing they seemed to him; but his conscience, like an angel with a flaming sword, rejected all of them, declaring constantly that what he thought to do would be a grievous wrong.
But whom would it wrong? Not Ralph Burnham, for he was dead, and it could be no wrong to him; not Mrs. Burnham, for she would rejoice to have this boy with her, even though she knew he was not her son; not Bachelor Billy, for he would be helped to comfort and to happiness. And yet there stood the angel with the flaming sword crying out always that it was wrong.
But whom would it wrong? himself? Ah! there was a thought—would it be wronging himself?
Well, would it not? Had it not already made a coward of him? Was it not degrading him in his own eyes? Was it not trying to stifle the voice of conscience in his breast? Would it not make of him a living, walking lie? a thing to be shunned and scorned? Had he a right to place a burden so appalling on himself? Would it not be better to face the toil, the pain, the poverty, the fear? Would it not be better even to die than to live a life like that?
He sprang from the bed with clenched hands and flashing eyes and swelling nostrils. A fire of moral courage had blazed up suddenly in his breast. His better nature rose to the help of the angel with the flaming sword, and together they fought, as the giants of old fought the dragons in their path. Then hope came back, and courage grew, and resolution found new footing. He stood there as he stood that day on the carriage that bore Robert Burnham to his death, the light of heroism in his eyes, the glow of splendid faith illuming his face. He could not help but conquer. He drove the spirit of temptation from his breast, and enthroned in its stead the principle of everlasting right. There was no thought now of yielding; he felt brave and strong to meet every trial, yes, every terror that might lie in his path, without flinching one hair's breadth from the stern line of duty.
But now that his decision was made, he must act, and that promptly. What was the first thing to be done? Why, the first thing always was to confide in Uncle Billy, and to ask for his advice.
He seized his hat and started up the village street and across the hill to Burnham Breaker There was no lagging now, no indecision in his step, no doubt within his mind.
He was once more brave, hopeful, free-hearted, ready to do anything or all things, that justice might be done and truth become established.
The sun shone down upon him tenderly, the birds sang carols to him on the way, the blossoming trees cast white flowers at his feet; but he never stayed his steps nor turned his thought until the black heights of Burnham Breaker threw their shadows on his head.