His eyes ranged timidly over the sombre waste—the vasty, splendid heavens, the coast, dark and unfeeling, the infinite, sullen sea, which ominously darkened as he looked—and he covered his face with his hands.
“No,” he whispered, looking up, “I do not wonder that you believe in God—and fear Him!”
Then I knew that roundabout he felt the presence of an offended God.
“And fear Him!” he repeated.
I levelled my finger at him. “You been wicked!” I said, knowing that my accusation was true.
“Yes,” he answered, “I have been wicked.”
“Is you goin’ t’ be good?”
“I am going to try to be good—now.”
“You isn’t goin’ away, is you?” I wailed.
“I am going to stay here,” he said, gravely, “and treat the people, who need me, and try, in that way, to be good.”