"My father, (I am told, for he died when I was a child,) was a wealthy farmer, whose wealth was swallowed up by an unjust lawsuit and a fraudulent bank. My grandfather was a wheelwright; my great-grandfather a cobbler; my great-great-grandfather a carpenter; and his father, was a tiller of the field. So you see, I am _nobly_ descended," and a smile crossed the lips of Dermoyne. "Not a single idler or vagabond in our family,--all workers, like their Savior,--all men who eat the bread of honest labor. Ah! I forgot;" he passed his hand over his forehead--"there was a count in our family. This, I confess, is a blot upon us; but when you remember that he forsook his countship in Germany, to become a tiller of the fields in Pennsylvania--about the year 1680--you will look over the fault of his title." Herman burst into a fit of pleasant laughter. "You have odd ideas of nobility!" he ejaculated. "Odd as the New Testament," said Dermoyne; "and as old. By-the-bye, this count in our family, was related to the Van Huyden family. (You, also, are one of the seven?--Yes, your name is among the others.) Ah! should the 25th of December give into my hands but a few thousand dollars, I will try and show the world how workmen, united for the common good, can live and work together." "A few thousands!" laughed Herman, displaying himself at full length on the capacious chair; "why, in case the Seven receive the estate at all, they will divide among them some twenty, perhaps, forty millions of dollars!" "Forty millions of dollars!" Dermoyne was thunderstruck. He folded his arms, and gazed upon vacancy with fixed eyes. "My God! what might not be done with forty millions!"--he paused and stretched forth his hand, as though a vision of the future dawned upon him. "Did Mr. Burney--poor friend!--know that you were a--shoemaker?" Once more Herman shaded his eyes with his hand, and regarded the young man with a pleasant smile. "He did not," answered Dermoyne. "I became acquainted with him,--it matters not how,--and visited his house, where, more than once, I have conversed with his daughter Alice. No, Mr. Burney did me wrong; for while I was a shoemaker, he persisted, (in ignorance of my character,) in thinking me--_a gentleman_! A _gentleman_--an idle vagabond, whose gentility is supported by the labor of honest men.--Faugh!" "Well, I must confess," Herman said with a wave of the hand and a patronizing tone, "that from your manner, gestures, accent, et cetera, I have always taken you for an educated gentleman. But your principles are decidedly ungenteel,--allow me the remark." Herman began to feel much more at ease. "He does not dream I have any share in the abduction of Alice!" This thought was comfort and repose to his mind. But Arthur Dermoyne changed the tone of this pleasant dream by a single question: "Do _you_,--" he fixed his eyes sternly upon the young minister: "Do YOU know anything of the retreat of Alice Burney?"