“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!”