“Ah, then, Wolfscliff, is not your family name Stuart?”
“Certainly.”
“And have you not a lawful right to that name?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“And do you not spell it S-t-u-a-r-t?”
“I do.”
“Then you are my kinsman on the distaff side! Yes, there is but one root of the tree of Stuart, and that is the old royal root that grew fast in Scottish ground, and every one who lawfully bears the name of Stuart is a leaf of that same tree.”
“Granted,” said Cleve, with perhaps a faint leaven of sinful pride, “granted that my ancestor seven generations back was Charles Stuart, called the Young Pretender, how should that make us kinsmen?”
“I am afraid, young Wolfscliff, that you do not keep yourself well posted up in your family genealogy,” said The O’Melaghlin.
“Indeed I do not,” replied Stuart, with a laugh. “I fear I know little or nothing with certainty of my family on either side the house previous to their emigration to America. Why, O’Melaghlin, do you know if I could become a candidate for the highest office in this country, and knew who was my grandfather, it would be a grave objection to me in the minds of this democratic and republican people—unless, indeed, I could prove that he was a tramp, a gypsy, or, at the very best, a day laborer!”