o do but
to go about and talk; but we poor men must work." So saying, he rose up
from his "settle" and went to the door.
"But, Billy, it is raining quite hard; you cannot work in rain like
that."
"Can't help it; we must do our work," and so he slammed the door after
him and departed.
His wife made all kinds of apologies for him, because "he was a very
singular kind of man; he did not mean bad--he was 'that curious,' that
he said and did curious things, and that I must not mind him."
I confess I was much disappointed at his abrupt departure from the
house, but I remained a little longer, till the worst of the storm was
over.
After the lapse of nearly a quarter of an hour, Billy crept back to the
door, and lifting the latch quietly, whispered to his wife, "Is the
passon gone?"
"No, Billy," I said, "here I am. Come in out of the wet. I am so glad
you have come back."
"What d'yer want with me?" he inquired. "I want to talk to you about
your soul. I have been thinking much about you lately, Billy. They call
you a 'lost soul.'"
"What's that to you?"
"Ah, a great deal," I said, "because I have a message for lost people. I
am not a doctor for the body; my business is about the soul."
"I ain't so bad as all that yet," he replied.
"But you are bad enough, Billy--bad enough."
"Yes, indeed," interposed his wife.
"You hold yer tongue; you're no better."
I beckoned to her to be still, and went on to say, "You are bad enough,
Billy, for an old man. How old are you?"
"Up seventy years."
"Seventy years!" I repeated. "Well, now, that's a great age--that's the
age of man. Threescore years and ten! It is like giving you notice to
give up the keys of the old tabernacle. I wonder why God spares your
life? I am afraid you have been a cumberer of the ground all this time,
Billy. Do you know why the good Lord has spared you for so long?"
"I can't tell," he said, getting more and more impatient.
"Well, do you know, I think I can tell you. He is such a loving and
mer