“I should be,” he said, “if I saw you running after a girl who turns up her nose at your working clothes, and kisses you in your Sunday coat. She’s not worth a thought, Louis.” “I have thought of her all my life,” the boy said simply; “but don’t speak of it, please, papa.” “That way it sinks deeper,” the shoemaker said, as one who knew. They washed their hands, and drew on their coats, in the wash-room, between their rooms and the carpenter shop, and serving the use of both; and so it happened that Louis entered the dining-room with Ernest Clare’s arm over his shoulders. “There’s that handsome man again,” said Miss Dare, who had not disdained the explanations of such a fine young fellow as Fritz Rolf. “Didn’t you tell us he was of noble birth?” “Lineal descendant of Richard de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, surnamed Strongbow,” replied Fritz. “Louis found it in the history-book, and told me. I’m not a scholar myself,” he added agreeably. “I never could remember history,” replied Miss Dare, “it’s such stupid stuff, but if he was an _earl_—!” “He conquered Ireland, and was an awful rebel; ought to have been hanged, only he wasn’t,” observed Pinkie succinctly. “And now we see why,” said Mr. Randolph; “he was spared to be the ancestor of our friend the carpenter.” “Do you really believe that, papa?” Henry Randolph waved the matter aside with a pleasant smile. “Well,” he said, “I never knew an Irishman who wasn’t descended from one king or another, and there were certainly plenty to choose from. Besides, what does it matter? The sooner you girls learn that blood is absolutely valueless in America, the better off you will be.” As he spoke, they had been slowly approaching their table, which, not without malice prepense on Mr. Randolph’s part, was very near that called after the “Founders,” with which and the “Parsons’ Table” it formed a triangle; and as the speech ended they were sufficiently near for Karl Metzerott to glance around with what I refrain from calling a scowl. “_Nicht wahr_, Herr Metzerott?” said the millionnaire blandly. “Blood?” growled the shoemaker, declining promptly to converse with Henry Randolph in German; English was good enough for _him_,—“blood? well, I’ve seen the time when I wanted it,—wanted it bad, too; gallons of it; I can’t say that it is absolutely valueless.” “Sure, I wance knowed a man that had too much of it,” said Father McClosky, his brogue more obtrusive than usual, in honor of the distinguished guests, “and it wint to his head, bad luck to it! and killed him with the appleplexy.”