"That's my name," Uncle Matthew replied, smiling at his nephew.
"Aye, but!..."
"She used to call me 'Matt' before she was married, and for a wee while afterwards, when we were all friends together. Your da's death was a fearful blow to her, and she never overed it. And she thought I was a bad influence on you, filling your head with stuff out of books. You see, John, women are not like men ... they don't value things the way we do ... and things that seem important to us, aren't worth a flip of your hand to them. And the other way round, I suppose. But a woman can't be bitter against a sick man, no matter how much she hated him when he had his health. That's where we have the whiphand of them, John. They can't stand against us when we're sick, but we can stand up against anything, well or sick!..."
John remembered his mother's caution that he was not to let his Uncle talk much.
"You ought to lie still, Uncle Matthew," he said, but Uncle Matthew would not heed him.
"I'm as well as I'll ever be." he said. "I know rightly I'll never leave this bed 'til I'm carried out of it for good and all. And I'm not going to deny myself the pleasure of a talk for the sake of an extra day or two!..."
"Wheesht, Uncle Matthew!" John begged.
"Why, son, what's there to cry about? I'm not afeard to die. No MacDermott was ever afeard to die, and I won't be the first to give in. Oh, dear, no!"
"But you'll get better, Uncle Matthew, you will, if you'll only take care of yourself!..."
"Ah, quit blethering John. I won't get better!... What were we saying? Something about your ma!..."