I persuaded him to accompany me to one of the largest churches in Belfast. I was to preach there. That was more than he expected and the joy of it was overpowering.
I do not remember the text, nor could I give at this distance of time an outline of the discourse: it was one of those occasions when a man stands on the borderland of another world. I felt distinctly the spiritual guidance of an unseen hand. I took her theme and spoke more for her approval than for the approval of the crowd.
He could not hear, but he listened with his eyes. On the street, after the service, he became oblivious of time and place and people. He threw his long lean arms around my neck and kissed me before a crowd. He hoped Anna was around listening. I told him she was and he said he would like to be "happed up" beside her, as he had nothing further to hope for in life.
In fear and trembling he crossed the Channel with me. In fear lest he should die in Scotland and they would not bury him in Antrim churchyard beside Anna. We visited my brothers and sisters for several days. Every day we took long walks along the country roads. These walks were full of questionings. Big vital questions of life and death and immorality. They were quaintly put:
"There's a lot of balderdash about another world, bhoy. On yer oath now, d'ye think there is wan?"
"I do."
"If there is wud He keep me frum Anna jist because I've been kinda rough?"
"I am sure He wouldn't!"
"He wudn't be s' d—d niggardly, wud He?"
"Never! God is love and love doesn't work that way!"