seek him there.

I found the marquis seated by the fire, in a thoughtful and dejected
attitude.

"I am glad you are come," said he, making room for me on the hearth,
"for I assure you I have not felt so mournful for many years; we have
much to explain to each other. Will you begin? They say the sound of
the bell dissipates the thunder-cloud; and there is nothing like the
voice of a frank, honest nature to dispel all the clouds that come upon
us when we think of our own faults and the villany of others. But I beg
you a thousand pardons: that young man your relation,--your brave
uncle's son? Is it possible?"

My explanations to Lord Castleton were necessarily brief and imperfect.
The separation between Roland and his son; my ignorance of its cause; my
belief in the death of the latter; my chance acquaintance with the
supposed Vivian; the interest I took in him; the relief it was to the
fears for his fate with which he inspired me, to think he had returned
to the home I ascribed to him; and the circumstances which had induced
my suspicions, justified by the result,--all this was soon hurried over.

"But I beg your pardon," said the marquis, interrupting me "did you, in
your friendship for one so unlike you, even by your own partial account,
never suspect that you had stumbled upon your lost cousin?"

"Such an idea never could have crossed me."

And here I must observe that though the reader, at the first
introduction of Vivian, would divine the secret, the penetration of a