In order to sustain the new character which he had assumed, he came every day to the reading-room, tumbling over books and papers, generally carrying one of the former in his hand, affecting an utter disregard of his personal appearance, daubing his fingers with ink, wiping them on the pocket of his coat, and doing numerous other things which he fancied would stamp him a distinguished person. On the morning of which we have spoken, Joel’s attention was attracted toward Durward, whose daguerreotype he had seen at Maple Grove, and though he did not recognize the original, he fancied he might have met him before, and was about making his acquaintance, when Durward’s action drew from him the remark we have mentioned. Thinking him to be some impertinent fellow, Durward paid him no attention, and was about leaving, when, hitching his chair a little nearer, Joel said, “Be you from Virginny?” “No.” “From York state?” “No.” “From Pennsylvany?” “No.” “Mebby, then, you are from Kentucky?” No answer. “Be you from Kentucky?” “Yes.” “Do you know Mr. Graham’s folks?” “Yes,” said Durward, trembling lest the next should be something concerning his stepfather—but it was not. Settling himself a little further back in the chair, Joel continued: “Wall, I calkerlate that I’m some relation to Miss Graham. Be you ’quainted with her?” Durward knew that a relationship with _Mrs_. Graham also implied a relationship with himself, and feeling a little curious as well as somewhat amused, he replied, “Related to Mrs. Graham! Pray how?” “Why, you see,” said Joel, “that my grandmarm’s aunt—she was younger than grandmarm, and was her aunt tew. Wall, she went off to Virginia to teach music, and so married a nabob—know what that is, I s’pose; she had one gal and died, and this gal was never heard from until I took it into my head to look her up, and I’ve found out that she was _Lucy Temple_. She married an Englishman, first—then a man from South Carolina, who is now livin’ in Kentucky, between Versailles and Frankfort.” “What was your grandmother’s aunt’s name?” asked Durward. “Susan Howard,” returned Joel. “The Howards were a stuck-up set, grandmarm and all—not a bit like t’other side of the family. My mother’s name was Scovandyke——” “And yours?” interrupted Durward. “Is Joel Slocum, of Slocumville, Massachusetts, at your service,” said the young man, rising up and going through a most wonderful bow, which he always used on great occasions. In a moment Durward knew who he was, and greatly amused, he said, “Can you tell me, Mr. Slocum, what relation this Lucy Temple, your great-great-aunt’s daughter, would be to you?” “My third cousin, of course,” answered Joel. “I figgered that out with a slate and pencil.” “And her son, if she had one?” “Would be my fourth cousin; no great connection, to be sure—but enough to brag on, if they happened to be smart!”