Hector entered the library with some impetuosity. Usually he was quiet and orderly, but he had been excited by the insinuations of Guy, and he was impatient to know what he meant—if he meant anything.

Allan Roscoe looked up, and remarked, with slight sarcasm:

“This is not a bear garden, Hector. You appear to think you are on the playground, judging by your hasty motions.”

“I beg your pardon, uncle,” said Hector, who never took amiss a rebuke which he thought deserved. “I suppose I forgot myself, being excited. I beg your pardon.”

“What is the cause of your excitement?” asked Mr. Roscoe, surveying the boy keenly.

“Guy has said something that I don’t understand.”

“He must have said something very profound, then,” returned Allan Roscoe, with light raillery.

“Indeed, Uncle Allan, it is no laughing matter,” said Hector, earnestly.

“Then let me hear what it is.”

“He intimates that he knows something that would let down my pride a peg or two. He hints that I am not the heir of Castle Roscoe.”

The boy used the term by which the house was usually known.

Allan Roscoe knit his brow in pretended vexation.

“Inconsiderate boy!” he murmured. “Why need he say this?”

“But,” said Hector, startled, “is it true?”

“My boy,” said his uncle, with simulated feeling, “my son has spoken to you of a secret which I would willingly keep from you if I could. Yet, perhaps, it is as well that you should be told now.”

“Told what?” exclaimed Hector, quite at sea.

“Can you bear to hear, Hector, that it is indeed true? You are not the owner of this estate.”

“Who is then?” ejaculated the astonished boy.

“I am; and Guy after me.”

“What! Did my father leave the estate away from me? I thought he did not leave a will?”

“Nor did he.”

“Then how can anyone else except his son inherit?”

“Your question is a natural one. If you were his son you would inherit under the law.”

“If I were his son!” repeated Hector, slowly, his head swimming. “What do you mean by that? Of course I am your brother’s son.”

“It is very painful for me to tell, Hector. It will be distressing for you to hear. No tie of blood connects you with the late owner of Castle Roscoe.”

“I don’t believe you, Uncle Allan,” said Hector, bluntly.

“Of course, therefore, I am not your uncle,” added Allan Roscoe, dryly.

“I beg your pardon; I should have said Mr. Allan Roscoe,” said Hector, bowing proudly, for his heart was sore, and he was deeply indignant with the man who sat, smooth and sleek, in his father’s chair, harrowing up his feelings without himself being ruffled.

“That is immaterial. Call me uncle, if you like, since the truth is understood. But I must explain.”

“I would like to know what is your authority for so surprising a statement, Mr. Roscoe. You cannot expect me to believe that I have been deceived all my life.”

“I make the statement on your father’s authority—I should say, on my brother’s authority.”

“Can you prove it, Mr. Roscoe?”

“I can. I will presently put into your hands a letter, written me by my brother some months since, which explains the whole matter. To save you suspense, however, I will recapitulate. Where were you born?”

“In California.”

“That is probably true. It was there that my brother found you.”

“Found me?”

“Perhaps that is not the word. My brother and his wife were boarding in Sacramento in the winter of 1859. In the same boarding house was a widow, with a child of some months old. You were that child. Your mother died suddenly, and it was ascertained that she left nothing. Her child was, therefore, left destitute. It was a fine, promising boy—give me credit for the compliment—and my brother, having no children of his own, proposed to his wife to adopt it. She was fond of children, and readily consented. No formalities were necessary, for there was no one to claim you. You were at once taken in charge by my brother and his wife, therefore, and very soon they came to look upon you with as much affection as if you were their own child. They wished you to consider them your real parents, and to you the secret was never made known, nor was it known to the world. When my brother returned to this State, three years after, not one of his friends doubted that the little Hector was his own boy.

“When you were six years old your mother died—that is, my brother’s wife. All the more, perhaps, because he was left alone, my brother became attached to you, and, I think, he came to love you as much as 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 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.

“I can’t understand it,” said Hector, slowly.

“I need only add,” said Mr. Roscoe, apparently relieved by the revelation, “that my brother did not repose confidence in me in vain. I accept, as a sacred charge, the duty he imposed upon me. I shall provide for you and look after your education. I wish to put you in a way to prepare yourself for a useful and honorable career. As a first step, I intend, on Monday next, to place you in an excellent boarding school, where you will have exceptional privileges.”

Hector listened, but his mind was occupied by sad thoughts, and he made no comment.

“I have even selected the school with great care,” said Mr. Roscoe. “It is situated at Smithville, and is under the charge of Socrates Smith, A. M., a learned and distinguished educator. You may go now. I will speak with you on this subject later.”

Hector bowed. After what he had heard, his interest in other matters was but faint.

“I shall be glad to get him out of the house,” thought Allan Roscoe. “I never liked him.”