believed in a good deal, but he had no belief whatever in
starvation,--none as yet. It was probable enough that some belief in
this might come to him now before long. There were also one or two
others; men who had some stake in the country, but men who hadn't a
tithe of the interest possessed by Sir Thomas Fitzgerald.

Mr. Townsend again went through the ceremony of shaking hands with
his reverend brethren, and, on this occasion, did not seem to be
much the worse for it. Indeed, in looking at the two men cursorily,
a stranger might have said that the condescension was all on the
other side. Mr. M'Carthy was dressed quite smartly. His black
clothes were spruce and glossy; his gloves, of which he still kept
on one and showed the other, were quite new; he was clean shaven,
and altogether he had a shiny, bright, ebon appearance about him
that quite did a credit to his side of the Church. But our friend
the parson was discreditably shabby. His clothes were all brown, his
white neck-tie could hardly have been clean during the last
forty-eight hours, and was tied in a knot, which had worked itself
nearly round to his ear as he had sat sideways on the car; his boots
were ugly and badly brushed, and his hat was very little better than
some of those worn by the workmen--so called--at Ballydahan Hill.
But nevertheless, on looking accurately into the faces of both, one
might see which man was the better nurtured and the better born.
That operation with the sow's ear is, one may say, seldom successful
with the first generation.

"A beautiful morning, this," said the coadjutor, addressing Herbert
Fitzgerald, with a very mild voice and an unutterable look of
friendship; as though he might have said, "Here we are in a boat
together, and of course we are all very fond of each other." To tell