The Duke of Cornwall was quite astonished, and even indignant, at what he termed the inconsistency of his friend. "How can you be so weak as still to regret the loss of that peevish boy?" said he, as, on the second morning after Edric's departure, he entered the library of Sir Ambrose, attended by his confessor, Father Murphy. "Depend upon it, it is bad policy; for patience robs care of its bitterest sting, as this holy father says. You often preach that doctrine to me, don't you, Father Murphy?"
Father Murphy was an Irishman, and gifted with a rich brogue, which, aided by his comely figure, round rosy face, and little laughing black eyes, gave a peculiar raciness to every thing he said. He had not long filled the office he then held, and though he had been recommended to it, on the death of the duke's late confessor, by Father Morris, yet no two human beings could be more different than he and that reverend personage. Father Murphy, indeed, was a general favourite, and the whole household of the duke concurred in thinking him quite a nonpareil of a priest; for, as he was not very fond of doing
