An altercation then ensued as to which should ride foremost. The son, now in high glee, insisted on the father's taking the seat of honor; but the father would not hear of this. The lad was, in his opinion, at least semi-clerical, and to ride behind would be a degradation to so learned a youth. They mounted at length, the son foremost, and the father on the crupper, the saddle strapped about him, with the stirrups dangling by the horse's flanks. Father Finnerty, who accompanied them, could not, however, on turning from the bishop's grounds into the highway, get a word out of them. The truth is, both their hearts were full; both were, therefore, silent, and thought every minute an hour until they reached home. This was but natural. A man may conceal calamity or distress even from his dearest friends; for who is there who wishes to be thrust back from his acknowledged position in life? Or who, when he is thrust back, will not veil his misfortunes or his errors with the guise of indifference or simulation? In good fortune we act differently. It is a step advanced; an elevation gained; there is nothing to fear, or to be ashamed of, and we are strongly prompted by vanity to proclaim it to the world, as we are by pride to ascribe its occurrence to our own talents or virtues. There are other and purer motives for this. The affections will not be still; they seek the hearts to which they tend; and having found them, the mutual interchange of good takes place. Father Finnerty--whose heart, though a kind one, had, probably, been too long out of practice to remember the influence and working of the domestic affections--could not comprehend the singular conduct of the two O'Shaughnessys. “What the devil is the matter with you?” he inquired. “Have you lost the use of your speech?” “Push an' avourneen,” said the father to Denis--“push an; lay the spur to him. Isn't your spur on the right foot?” “Most certainly,” said Denis, now as pedantic as ever--“most certainly it is. You are not to be informed that our family spur is a right-foot spur.” “Well, then, Peter Gallagher's spur that I have an is a left-foot spur, for it's an my left foot.” “You are a bright pair,” said the priest, somewhat nettled at their neglect of him--“you are a bright pair, and deeply learned in spurs. Can't you ride asier?” “Never heed him,” said the father, in a whisper; “do you, give the mare the right spur, an' I'll give her the left. Push an! that's it.” They accordingly dashed forwrard, Denis plying, one heel, and the father another, until the priest found himself gradually falling behind. In vain he plied both spurs; in vain he whipped, and wriggled on the saddle, and pressed forwrard his hack. Being a priest's horse, the animal had been accustomed for the last twelve years to a certain jog-trot-pace, beyond which it neither would nor could go. On finding all his efforts to overtake them unsuccessful, he at last shouted after them.