“Thank you,” I said. “Good-night.” “Good-night.” The door closed, and I was alone. I retraced my muddy way, followed closely by a large savage dog belonging to the owner of the house, while—the soil being unusually pliable there—my crutch sunk in eighteen inches at every step. Before reaching my uncle’s that night, I got off the wrong road, and on it again, five times, did two miles of superfluous walking and two miles of the requisite article, waked whole dozens of neighbors, and alarmed whole battalions of dogs. These faithful creatures barked furiously as I approached, and set others to barking, in response, at a distance, and _they_ barked and set others to barking at another distance, and they others, and so on, and so on, again; till I must have indirectly and innocently aroused or disturbed the greater portion of the population of Ohio that night. Cleveland, Sandusky, Steubenville, Columbus, Dayton, and Cincinnati, all heard from me through the dogs. At last, worn and weary and covered with mud, I found the place, and not without apprehensions of getting shot for a robber, approached the door, and knocked. As intimated, I had never seen my uncle, and how did I know what kind of man he was, or what sort of reception awaited me? Suppose he should be ill-natured, being disturbed at that time of night, and make me feel as though I were not welcome? Such misgivings suggested themselves to me, as I stood at the door. I knocked a couple of times, without getting any reply, and began to fear that my uncle supposed me to be a burglar and was getting his gun ready to shoot through the door. I therefore stepped aside, and yelled: “Hallo!” I heard a movement within, but no reply. “Hallo!” I repeated: the somber echoes of my voice rang through a gloomy wood near by; and I was a little afraid it might stir up a panther or wildcat, and tempt it to come out and eat a piece of me. “Who is there?” came from within. “Does William Smith live here?” was my non-committal rejoinder. “Yes.” “I am his nephew from Pennsylvania, John Smith, Junior,” said I, in a distinct voice. The whole house shook, as my uncle sprung from the bed and alighted on the floor of the little old-fashioned farm-house. “Wait one moment,” said he, in a voice that was musical with welcome. There was a hasty fumbling among garments for a moment, and a glad little light sprung up within, and peeped slyly out at me from crevices about the door. Then the door opened, and before me stood a strong old man of seventy-three, with snow-white hair and beard. “Is this my uncle?” I asked. “Yes,” he replied, cordially grasping my hand. “Come in, my boy! You are my nephew John?” “Yes.” “And have lost your leg. Too bad!” “O, I don’t mind that any more, uncle,” I said, as I walked in.