On this particular night, on my return home, Mrs. Adamson said to me, “Oh, Mrs. Bailey, who do you think has come back?”
I replied I did not know, to which she made answer, “Why, the one-armed old man, and he has asked for you. He swears he will shoot you unless you go to him.”
He was in the house of our next-door neighbour, and previously to that the lady of the house came in, and said, “Oh, Mrs. Bailey, do come in, the old man’s gone mad; he wants to see you so bad. He won’t be satisfied with anyone until you go.”
When I went in I found him “drunk on Irish whiskey.”
He said, “Is that you, pet (for by that name he used to call me), I am so glad you have come, where have you been?”
I told him I had just come in from business.
He said, “Oh, I am so glad you have come. I thought you were never coming back. Are you not pleased to see me?”
I said, “Oh, particularly, very; I like you so much.”
People must not think by that that I loved him, or because he said in his last letter to me that I did. I got him home, and made him a cup of tea, after which he seemed better.
He went back to the place where he was then residing, for he did not, as I have already said, live in the house with me.