"I wonder how he is now. Do you think I should go up now?" John said.

"Wait 'til the doctor comes down. I have great faith in Dr. Dobbs. He never humbugs you, that man, but tells you plump and plain what's wrong with you!" He sat back in his chair, and for a while there was no sound in the kitchen, but the noise of the clock and the small drooping noise made by the dying fire. There was no sound from overhead.

Uncle William glanced at the clock. He got up and stopped the pendulum.

"I can't bear the sound of it," he said to John as he sat down again.

They remained in silence for a while longer, and then Uncle William got up and started the clock again. "Mebbe ... mebbe, it's better for it to be going." he said.

He searched for his pipe on the mantel-shelf and, when he had found it, lit it with a coal which he picked out of the fire with the tongs.

"Your Uncle Matthew was terribly upset by it," he said, reverting to the play. "It was a wild and wet night, we had to walk every inch, of the way, for there was no late trains in them days, John, and we were drenched to the skin. Your Uncle Matthew never said one word to me the whole road home. He just held his head high and stared straight in front of him, and when I looked at him, though the night was dark, I could see that his fists were clenched and his lips were moving, though he didn't speak. You never see no plays like that, these days, John.

The last piece I saw in Belfast was a fearful foolish piece, with a lot of love and villainy in it. The girl was near drowned in real water, and then the villain tied her on to a circular saw, and if it hadn't been for the hero coming in the nick of time, she'd have been cut in two. No man would treat a woman that way, tying her on to a saw! I'm afeard some of these pieces nowadays are terribly foolish, John, so I never want to go now!"

II

There was a sound of footsteps on the stairs, and presently Dr. Dobbs, a lean, stooping man, came into the kitchen, followed by Mrs.

MacDermott. The Doctor nodded to John, and Mrs. MacDermott said, "You're back!" and then went into the scullery from which she soon returned, carrying a gla.s.s with which she hurried upstairs again.

"Your Uncle's been asking for you, John," said the doctor, drawing on his gloves.

"Can I go up and see him, sir?" John asked.

"In a minute or two. Your mother'll call for you when he's ready. I'm afraid there's not much hope, William!" the doctor said.

John leant against the mantel-shelf, waiting to hear more. He listened in a dazed way to what the doctor was saying, but hardly comprehended it, for in his mind the words, "I'm afraid there's not much hope!" made echoes and re-echoes. Uncle Matthew was dying, might, in a little while, be dead. Dear, simple, honest, kindly Uncle Matthew who had loved literature and good faith too well, and had suffered for his simple loyalty.

"He's easier now than he was," the doctor continued, "and he may last a good while ... and he may not. I _think_ he'll last a while yet, but he might die before the morning. I want you to be prepared for the worst. You know where to find me if you want me, William!"

"Yes, doctor!"

"I've left him in good hands. Your mother's a great nurse, John," he said, turning to the boy.

"Can I go up to him now, doctor?"

"Yes, I think perhaps ... oh, yes, I think you may. But go up quietly, will you, in case he's dozed off!..."

John did not wait to hear any more, but, walking on tiptoe, went up the stairs to his uncle's room.

Uncle Matthew turned to greet him as he entered the room.

"Is that you, John?" he said.

"Yes, Uncle Matthew," John answered, tiptoeing to the side of the bed.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here earlier. I never thought!..."

Uncle Matthew smiled at him. "Sure, son, it doesn't matter. You couldn't know ... none of us did. Well, was the play good?"

But John did not wish to speak about the play. He wished only to sit by his Uncle's bed and hold his Uncle's hand.

"I'll go downstairs now for a wee while," Mrs. MacDermott said. "I have a few things to do, and John can call me if you need me, Matt!"

"Aye, Hannah!" said Uncle Matthew.

John looked up at his mother, but she had turned to leave the room, and he could not see her face.

He had never heard her call his Uncle by the name of "Matt" before, nor had he often heard Uncle Matthew use her Christian name in addressing her. He avoided it, John had observed, as much as possible, and it had seemed to him that his Uncle did so because of his mother's antagonism to him.

"What are you staring at, John?" Uncle Matthew said feebly.

"She called you 'Matt', Uncle!"

"That's my name," Uncle Matthew replied, smiling at his nephew.

"Aye, but!..."

"She used to call me 'Matt' before she was married, and for a wee while afterwards, when we were all friends together. Your da's death was a fearful blow to her, and she never overed it. And she thought I was a bad influence on you, filling your head with stuff out of books. You see, John, women are not like men ... they don't value things the way we do ... and things that seem important to us, aren't worth a flip of your hand to them. And the other way round, I suppose. But a woman can't be bitter against a sick man, no matter how much she hated him when he had his health. That's where we have the whiphand of them, John. They can't stand against us when we're sick, but we can stand up against anything, well or sick!..."

John remembered his mother's caution that he was not to let his Uncle talk much.

"You ought to lie still, Uncle Matthew," he said, but Uncle Matthew would not heed him.

"I'm as well as I'll ever be." he said. "I know rightly I'll never leave this bed 'til I'm carried out of it for good and all. And I'm not going to deny myself the pleasure of a talk for the sake of an extra day or two!..."

"Wheesht, Uncle Matthew!" John begged.

"Why, son, what's there to cry about? I'm not afeard to die. No MacDermott was ever afeard to die, and _I_ won't be the first to give in. Oh, dear, no!"

"But you'll get better, Uncle Matthew, you will, if you'll only take care of yourself!..."

"Ah, quit blethering John. I won't get better!... What were we saying?

Something about your ma!..."

"Yes. Her calling you 'Matt'!"

"Oh, aye. You'd be surprised, mebbe, to hear that your Uncle William and me both had a notion of her before your da stepped in and took her from us? We had no chance against him. That man could have lifted a queen from a king's bed!..."

"You ought not to be talking so much, Uncle Matthew!"

"Ah, let me talk, John. It's the only comfort I have, and I'll get all the rest I want by and bye. Was it a girl kept you late the night?"

"How did you know, Uncle Matthew?"

"How did I know!" Uncle Matthew said with raillery. "How would anyone know anything but by using the bit of wit the Almighty G.o.d's put in his head. What is it makes any lad lose his train, and walk miles in the dark? It's either women or drink ... and you're no drinker, John. Tell me about her. I'd like to be the first to know!"

"I only met her the day!..."

"Aye?"