plest things of life. She was certainly much more like his boy Tom in disposition than was his own brother, Spot. It was like Tom, however, to be so generous in offering his dog to protect a child. That was not much like Spot—not the Spot his father knew, at least. Could he have been mistaken in Spot? Anyhow, he was grateful to him for befriending his little Rebecca.
Whether she were his grandchild or not, the old man loved her fiercely. Usually he was sure she was of his own flesh and blood, but there were times of agonizing doubt. This he would hardly confess to himself, and he would have died rather than let his family know it. He had made a new will so worded that there would be no doubt about the child's inheriting what he intended her to have, whether she belonged to him or not. He was confident that she herself believed Tom Taylor was her father.
A few days after Rebecca's coming to Mill House, Robert Taylor had written to Mrs. O'Shea, but weeks had gone by with no answer from her. He had asked in language most courteous that she oblige him with any and all proofs of the identity of the little girl she had so kindly sent him, also that she should immediately forward to him the trunk of letters that had
