assertions of that sort.

"Are you angry with me, Uncle William?" John anxiously asked.

"Angry with you, son?" He swung round again on the high stool. "Come
here 'til I show you whether I am or not!"

And then Uncle William gathered him up in his arms and crushed the
boy's face into his beard. "God love you, John," he said, "how could I
be angry with you, and you your da's son!"

"I love you queer and well, Uncle," John murmured shyly.

"Do you, son? I'm glad to hear that."

"Aye. And I love my Uncle Matthew, too!..."

"That's right. Always love your Uncle Matthew whatever you do or
whatever happens. He's a man that has more need of love nor most of us.
Your da loved him well, John!"

"Did he?"

"Aye, he did, indeed!" Uncle William put his pen down on the desk, and
leaning against the ledger, rested his head in the cup of his hand.
"Your da was a strange man, John," he said, "a queer, strange man, with
a powerful amount of knowledge in his head. That man could write Latin
and Greek and French and German, and he was the first man in Ballyards
to write the Irish language ... and them was the days when people said
Irish was a Papist language, and would have nothing to do with it. Your