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.