“Miles, I like that,” exclaimed my cousin, with a strange sincerity, stretching out a hand to receive mine, which he pressed most warmly.  “You are very right; I ought to be the heir of this place, should you die without children, even though you left a widow,”

This was said so naturally, and was so much in conformity with my own notions on the subject, that it did not so much offend, as surprise me.  I knew John Wallingford loved money, and, all men having a very respectful attachment to the representative of value, such a character invariably means, that the party named suffers that attachment to carry him too far.  I wished, therefore, my kinsman had not made just such a speech; though it in no manner shook my intentions in his favour.

“You are more ready to advise your friends to get married, than to set the example,” I answered, willing to divert the discourse a little.  “You, who must be turned of fifty, are still a bachelor.”

“And so shall I remain through life.  There was a time I might have married, had I been rich; and now I am reasonably rich, I find other things to employ my affections.  Still, that is no reason you should not leave me Clawbonny, though it is not probable I shall ever live to inherit it.  Notwithstanding, it is family property, and ought not to go out of the name.  I was afraid, if you were, lost at sea, or should die of any of those outlandish fevers that sailors sometimes take, the place would get into females, and there would no longer be a Wallingford at Clawbonny.  Miles, I do not grudge you the possession of the property the least in the world; but it would make me very unhappy to know one of those Hazens, or Morgans, or Van-der-Schamps had it.”  Jack had mentioned the names of the children of so many Miss Wallingfords, aunts or great-aunts, of mine, and cousins of his own.—­“Some of them may be nearer to you, by a half-degree, or so, but none of them are as near to Clawbonny.  It is Wallingford land, and Wallingford land it ought to remain.”

I was amused in spite of myself, and felt a disposition now, to push the discourse further, in order better to understand my kinsman’s character.

“Should neither of us two marry,” I said, “and both die bachelors, what would then be the fate of Clawbonny?”

“I have thought of all that, Miles, and here is my answer:  Should such a thing happen, and there be no other Wallingford left, then no Wallingford would live to have his feelings hurt by knowing that a Vander-dunder-Schamp, or whatever these Dutchmen ought to be called, is living in his father’s house; and no harm would be done.  But, there are Wallingfords besides you and me.”

“This is quite new; for I had supposed we two were the last.”

“Not so:  Miles the first left two sons; our ancestor, the eldest, and one younger, who removed into the colony of New Jersey, and whose descendants still exist.  The survivors of us two might go there in quest of our heir, in the long run.  But do not forget I come before these Jersey Blues, let them be who, or what they may.”