But in the morning the child was unable to leave the bed where he had lain across his uncle and aunt's feet, his slumbers incessantly disturbed by the grunting, squealing pigs. Welsh arose early to let out the animals, and then dragged little Hugh from his bed to resume the responsibility of heirship. The child tottered to the floor. His uncle's fierce imprecations could not exorcise fever and delirium, and for many weeks little Hugh lingered between life and death. He remained weak and unable to go out during the winter, but he made many friends, of which the chief was the rough yellow dog. The child in return loved the great shaggy creature with all the strength of his poor crushed heart. But better than the devotion of the fowls, the pig and the dog, his Aunt Mary conceived a great affection for him, and grew to love him during his illness as her own child. When Welsh was absent, she would give him an egg, or a little fresh butter from the "meskin" prepared for market, or even a cup of peppermint tea; and over this, she told him secretly the tragic story of the Brontë family. In after years it was a satisfaction to Hugh to know that his cowardly uncle was no Brontë after all, and not even an Irishman. The spring came early that year, and with it health and vigor. Hugh's aunt had told him of the burning of the old Brontë house. The squalor and wretchedness of Welsh's home, into which so many things crept at night, compared with the ruins of the house in which his father had been reared, made a lasting impression upon Hugh's mind. But he was not left long to such reflections. As soon as he was able to go, he was sent to herd cattle, which were housed at night in the ruined rooms of the burnt edifice, with his dog, Keeper, for a faithful companion. Emily Brontë's love for her dog, which was actually named Keeper, was a weak platonic affair compared with the tie that bound the desolate boy and friendless dog together. In no land has attachment to home so firm a grip of the heart as in Ireland. Year followed year in slow procession, but Hugh grew up in solitariness, and his heart never ceased to yearn for the lost friends of his old home. His corduroy suit soon grew too small for him, and when his boots became unwearable, he was obliged to go bare-footed. His highest enjoyment was to be away with his dog somewhere, remote from the espionage of Gallagher, and the violent blasphemy of Welsh. But his idle days among the bees in the clover soon gave place to sterner duties. He had to gather potatoes in sleet and rain, collect stones from winter fields to drain bog-land, perform the drudgery of an ill-cultivated farm from sunrise to sunset, and then thresh and winnow grain in the barn until near midnight. His uncle hated him fiercely and bitterly, and once told him that he could never beat him when he did not deserve it, because, like a goat, he was always either going to mischief, or coming from it.