"Do I understand you, then, to claim that Ralph, the slate-picker, is my son? this boy and no other?"
"That is my client's statement, madam."
The lady leaned back wearily in her chair.
"Then I fear you have come upon a futile errand, Mr. Sharpman," she said.
But, from the lawyer's stand-point, it began to look as if the errand was to be successful. He felt that he could speak a little more strongly now of Ralph's identity with Mrs. Burnham's son without endangering his cause.
"Can you remember," he said, "nothing about the lad's appearance that impressed you—now that you know the claim set up for hi—that impressed you with a sense of his relationship to you?"
"Nothing, sir, nothing whatever. The boy is a bright, frank, manly fellow; I have taken much interest in him from the first. His sorrow at the time of my husband's death touched me very deeply. I have been several times since then to look after his comfort and happiness. I saw and talked with him yesterday, as I have already told you. But he is not my son, sir, he is not my son."
"Pardon me, madam! but you must remember that time works wonders in a child's appearance; from three to eleven is a long stretch."
"I appreciate that fact, but I recall no resemblance whatever. My baby had light, curling hair, large eyes, full round cheeks and chin, a glow of health and happiness in his face. This lad is different, very different. There could not have been so great a change. Oh, no, sir! your client is mistaken; the boy is not my son; I am sure he is not."
Sharpman was rejoiced. Everything was working now exactly according to his plan. He thought it safe to push his scheme more rapidly.