"Tak' heart," added Bachelor Billy, "tak' heart, laddie. It's not all ower wi' us yet. I canna thenk as any law'd put a lamb i' the wolf's teeth." "I don't know," said the sheriff, as they stood on the step for a moment before leaving the house. "I don't know how you'll make it. I suppose, as far as the law's concerned, the old man's on the right track. As near as I can make out, the way the law-suit turned, he has a legal right to the custody of the child and to his earnings. But, if I was the lad, he'd no sooner get me to Philadelphia than I'd give him the slip. You've done it once, Ralph, you can do it again, can't you?" "I don't know," answered the boy, weakly; "I don't believe I'd try. If I have to go back with him I wouldn't live very long any way, an' it wouldn't pay to run away again. It don't make much difference; I ain't got anybody left now but Uncle Billy, an', if he goes with me, I guess I can stan' it till it's through with." It was the first time in his life that Ralph had ever spoken in so despondent a way, and Bachelor Billy was alarmed. "Bear up, lad," he said, "bear up. We'll mak' the best o' it; an' they canna do much harm till ye wi' Uncle Billy a-stannin' by." Mrs. Maloney had come to her door and stood there, looking at the trio in sorrowful surprise. "Good-by, Mrs. Maloney!" said Ralph going up to her. "It ain't likely I'll ever come back here any more, an' you've been very good to me, Mrs. Maloney, very good indeed, an'--an'--good-by!" "An' where do ye be goin' Ralphy?" "Back to Gran'pa Simon's, I s'pose. He's come for me and he's got a right to take me." The sheriff was looking uneasily at his watch. "Come," he said, "we'll have to hurry to catch the train." The good woman bent down and kissed the boy tenderly. "Good-by to ye, darlin'," she said, "an' the saints protict ye." Then she burst into tears, and, throwing her apron up before her face, she held it against her eyes and went, backward, into the house. Ralph laid hold of Bachelor Billy's rough hand affectionately, and they walked rapidly away. At the bend in the street, the boy turned to look back for the last time upon the cottage which had been his home. A happy home it had been to him, a very happy home indeed. He never knew before how dear the old place was to him. The brow of the hill which they were now descending hid the house at last from sight, and, with tear-blinded eyes, Ralph turned his face again toward the city, toward the misery of the court-room, toward the desolate and dreadful prospect of a life with Simon Craft. CHAPTER XIX. BACK TO THE BREAKER.