By this time the two elders had joined the party. Monsieur Claghorn had deemed it advisable, for his daughter's sake, to follow her footsteps. The Reverend Jared, accompanying him, heard Leonard's words. "A cousin!" he exclaimed, looking inquiringly at the stranger who made the claim, and ready gushingly to welcome him.
"I think so," answered the stranger, smiling. "My father was Joseph Claghorn, of San Francisco."
"He's your first cousin, 'Liph," exclaimed the Reverend Jared, hesitating no longer, but grasping the unoffered hand of the son of Joseph. Then he added in an awestruck voice, "You must be the owner of the Great Serpent?"
"I am in its coils," replied the young man with a half sigh.
"Wonderful!" ejaculated Jared, and then glibly plunged into a genealogical disquisition for the general benefit, the result of which was that Claghorn, the son of Joseph, and in the coils of the Great Serpent, stood demonstrated as the first cousin of Beverley, the second of Natalie, the third of himself and the fourth of Leonard. The professorial fluency had the good effect of creating enough hilarity to dissipate constraint; and its cordiality embraced all present in a circle of amity, whether they would or not.
But there was no indication of reluctance to cousinly recognition. Monsieur saw sufficient comedy in the situation to amuse him, nor was he oblivious of the fascinations of the Great Serpent, which reptile was a mine, known by repute to all present, and the source of Monsieur's wealth, for that inheritance that had changed the course of his life had been thence derived. The dead brother of the now dead Eliphalet had left his share of the mine to Joseph, his partner, but had divided his savings between Eliphalet and a sister, Achsah by name. The son of Joseph, and owner of the Great Serpent, must be in the eyes of anybody the acceptable person he was in the eyes of Monsieur Claghorn, the more so as he was thoroughly presentable, being handsome, well dressed, and with rather more of the air of a man of the world than was usual in one of his years, which might be twenty-one.
"We have not learned your Christian name," said Jared, after acquaintance had been established and the youth had been duly informed of much family history. "I hope your parents named you Eliphalet," glancing, not without reproach, at the actual owner of that appellation.
"They spared me that infliction," answered the newcomer, laughing, "though they hit me pretty hard. My name is Mark"; then, perhaps noting the faint flush upon the cheek of one of the members of the group, "I beg pardon; I should have been more respectful of a respectable family name, which may be borne by some one of you."
"Nobody bears it; you are to be congratulated," observed Monsieur firmly. The Reverend Jared looked grieved, but said nothing.
Mark Claghorn informed his auditors—there was no escaping the examination of the Professor—that he was a student at Heidelberg, that his mother sojourned there with him, that she was a widow, with an adopted daughter, a distant connexion, named Paula; and having learned that the entire party was bound for that city he expressed the hope that all these wandering offshoots of the Claghorn family might there meet and become better acquainted.