if you were his own son."

"I think he did," said Hector, with emotion. "Never was there a
kinder, more indulgent father."

"Yet he was not your father," said Allan Roscoe, with sharp
emphasis.

"So you say, Mr. Roscoe."

"So my brother says in his letter to me."

"Do you think it probable that, with all this affection for me, he
would have left me penniless?" asked the boy.

"No; it was his intention to make a will. By that will he would no
doubt have provided for you in a satisfactory manner. But I think my
poor brother had a superstitious fear of will making, lest it might
hasten death. At any rate, he omitted it till it was too late."

"It was a cruel omission, if your story is a true one."

"Your--my brother, did what he could to remedy matters. In his last
sickness, when too weak to sign his name, he asked me, as the legal
heir of his estate, to see that you were well provided for. He
wished me to see your education finished, and I promised to do so. I
could see that this promise relieved his mind. Of one thing you may
be assured, Hector, he never lost his affection for you."

"Thank Heaven for that!" murmured the boy, who had been deeply and