Poor Corny paused, checked himself, and then resumed--“Principles, religion, and all no hinderance!--liberal and sincere too! Well, I only wish--Father Jos, no offence--I only wish, for Dr. Cambray’s sake, and the Catholic church’s sake, I was, for one day, Archbishop of Canterbury, or Primate of all Ireland, or whatever else makes the bishops in your church, and I’d skip over dean and archdeacon, and all, and make that man--clean a bishop before night.” Harry smiled, and wished he had the power as well as the good-will. Father Jos said, “A man ought to be ashamed not to think of his _own_ first.” “Now, Harry, don’t think I’d make a bishop lightly,” continued King Corny; “I would not--I’ve been a king too long for that; and though only a king of my own fashion, I know what’s fit for governing a country, observe me!--Cousin Ulick would make a job of a bishop, but I would not--nor I wouldn’t to please my fancy. Now don’t think I’d make that man a bishop just because he noticed and praised my gimcracks and inventions, and _substitutes_.” Father Jos smiled, and demurely abased his eye. “Oh! then you don’t know me as well as you think you do, father,” said O’Shane. “Nor what’s more, Harry, not his noting down the two regiments to make inquiry for friends for you, Harry, shouldn’t have bribed me to partiality--though I could have kissed his shoe-ties for it.” “Mercy on you!” said Father Jos: “this doctor has bewitched you.” “But did you mind, then,” persisted Corny, “the way he spoke of that cousin of mine, Sir Ulick, who he saw I did not like, and who has been, as you tell us, bitter against him, and even against his getting the living. Well, the way this Doctor Cambray spoke then pleased me--good morals without preaching--there’s _do good to your enemies_--the true Christian doctrine--and the hardest point. Oh! let Father Jos say what he will, there’s the man will be in heaven before many--heretic or no heretic, Harry!” Father Jos shrugged up his shoulders, and then fixing the glass in his spectacles, replied, “We shall see better when we come to the tithes.” “That’s true,” said Corny. He walked off to his workshop, and took down his fowling-piece to put the finishing stroke to his work for the next day, which was to be the first day of partridge-shooting: he looked forward with delight--anticipating the gratification he should have in going out shooting with Harry, and trying his new fowling-piece. “But I won’t go out to-morrow till the post has come in; for my mind couldn’t enjoy the sport till I was satisfied whether the answer could come about your commission, Harry: my mind misgives me--that is, my calculation tells me, that it will come to-morrow.”