My father thanked him for his hospitality, but he made no reply, and turning on his heel, re-entered his house. We found Dio, who had run on, waiting for us out of sight of the house. He waved his hand, but said nothing. Eager to reach Uncle Denis's farm, my father drove on as fast as the horses could trot over the rough track. We had to endure the same amount of bumping and jolting as on the previous day. My poor mother's anxiety increased as we approached my uncle's farm. We met with no one who could give us any information. Since the fearful danger we had been in, she had become much more nervous than was her wont, and consequently could not help expecting to hear the worst. Great was her joy, therefore, when, on driving up to the door, who should we see but Uncle Denis himself seated in the porch, smoking a cigar. "I'm glad to see you, sister," he said, "but Doctor O'Dowd had no business to frighten you. He is always so accustomed to kill his patients that he fancies they are all going to die under his hand, and faith, it's no fault of his if they get well." My uncle's appearance, however, showed that he had gone through a severe illness. He was still too weak to walk without assistance, but his indomitable spirit, my father observed, had done much to keep him up; our coming also was of great assistance, as my mother was able to nurse him more carefully than were his usual black attendants. We remained with him for several days, at the end of which time he was able to mount his horse and take a gallop with my father in the early morning. Uncle Denis was one of the kindest-hearted men I ever met, and generally one of the merriest; but a shade of melancholy came over him occasionally. It was when he thought of Uncle Michael, or of that "dear fellow, Mike," as he used to say. He believed himself to have been in the wrong, and to have been the cause of his brother's leaving him, without taking an opportunity of acknowledging that such was the case, and asking for his forgiveness. My father and mother of course described to Uncle Denis the narrow escape we had had in crossing the river, and the somewhat doubtful style of hospitality with which we had been received by Mr Bracher. "He knows you, Denis," said my father. "And I know him," answered my uncle; "a more surly curmudgeon does not exist in these parts, or a harder master to his slaves. He is a man people wish to stand well with, not because they love him, but because they fear his vengeance should they offend him. I make a point of keeping out of his way, for fear that he should pick a quarrel with me, though he pretends to be friendly enough when we meet. The slaves hate him, as well they may, but the lash keeps them in order, and he has a set of fellows about him of his own kidney, who serve him because no one else would willingly employ them."