him and my father. He wrote again a few weeks since, to intimate that the heiress was lost; and asking if we knew anything of her. A name casually written on a slip of paper has enabled me to find her out. You know the rest." Again he was going, but I set my back against the door.
"Do let me speak," I said; "let me have one moment to draw breath and reflect." I paused—he stood before me, hat in hand, looking composed enough. I resumed:—
"Your mother was my father's sister."
"Yes."
"My aunt, consequently?"
He bowed.
"My uncle John was your uncle John? You, Diana, and Mary, are his sister's children; as I am his brother's child?"
"Undeniably."
"You three, then, are my cousins: half our blood on each side flows from the same source?"
"We are cousins: yes."
I surveyed him. It seemed I had found a brother: one I could be proud of,—one I could love; and two sisters, whose qualities were such, that when I knew them but as mere strangers, they had inspired me with genuine
