devotedly attached to the man whom, all his life long, he had looked
upon as his father.

"I can only add, Hector," said Mr. Roscoe, "that I feel for your
natural disappointment. It is, indeed, hard to be brought up to
regard yourself as the heir of a great estate, and to make the
discovery that you have been mistaken."

"I don't mind that so much, Mr. Roscoe," said Hector, slowly. "It is
the hardest thing to think of myself as having no claim upon one
whom I have loved as a father--to think myself as a boy of unknown
parentage. But," he added, suddenly, "I have it only on your word.
Why should I believe it?"

"I will give you conclusive proof, Hector. Read this."

Allan Roscoe took from his pocket a letter, without an envelope. One
glance served to show Hector that it was in the handwriting of his
late father, or, at any rate, in a handwriting surprisingly like it.

He began to read it with feverish haste.

The letter need not find a place here. The substance of it had been
accurately given by Mr. Allan Roscoe. Apparently, it corroborated
his every statement.

The boy looked up from its perusal, his face pale and stricken.

"You see that I have good authority for my statement," said Mr.
Roscoe.