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 penance himself, so he was not very rigid in imposing it upon others, and consequently he and his penitents were always upon the best terms imaginable. In short, he seemed especially designed by Nature to be good friends with all the world; and on his side he certainly did the utmost not to thwart the beneficent old lady's kind intentions. He now smiled good-humouredly at the duke's question, and replied, "Och! and is it me ye're quoting from, yere Grace? And where's the use of that, pray? when ye know I'm just here and ready to quote for myself." "If all your observations are as good as that the duke has just repeated," said Sir Ambrose, "I don't know any body that might be quoted from with more advantage." "Sure! and is it of myself ye're saying that?" asked Father Murphy, "for if ye are, ye never made a better spach in all your life; only there's a little mistake if ye think the observation ye're talking of came out of my own head, for it didn't do any such thing." "Do not be alarmed," said Father Morris, who now approached, and who spoke with his usual satirical sneer: "No one who knows you will ever suspect you of any thing so atrocious." "Good-nature and integrity are sometimes more than equivalent to brilliant talents," said Sir Ambrose bitterly. "True," rejoined Father Morris, in one of his softest, most insinuating tones; "but they become inestimable when united, as in the example before us:" bowing to Father Murphy as he spoke. Sir Ambrose turned, and looked earnestly at the tall thin figure of the monk as he stood before him, his arms crossed upon his breast, and his head, as usual, bent towards the ground, but he did not speak. A short pause ensued, which was broken by the duke's suddenly exclaiming, "Did you not say Dr. Entwerfen has gone off with Edric?" "Certainly, I did."