When he told me the dream I warned him, and begged him to give his heart to God.  “You may die,” I said, “before the eighth day.”  He laughed at the idea, and said he was “not going to be frightened by a dream.”  “When I am converted,” he continued, “I hope I shall be able to say that I was drawn by love and not driven by fear.”  “But what,” I said, “if you have been neglecting and slighting God’s love for a long time, and He is now moving you with fear to return to Him?” Nothing would do; he turned a deaf ear to every entreaty.  When the eighth day arrived, being market day, he went to the hall as usual, and looked at the wall of which he had dreamed with particular interest, but seeing no door there, he exclaimed, “It’s all right; now I will go and have a good dinner over it, with a bottle of wine!”

Whether he stopped at one bottle or not, I cannot tell; but late on Saturday night, as he was going home, he was thrown from his horse and killed.  That was at the end of the eighth day.

Whether these dreams and visions were the cause or effect of the people’s sensitive state, I do not know; but certainly they were very impressible, and even the cold and hardened amongst them were ready to hear about the mysteries of the unseen world.  I attributed this to the spiritual atmosphere in which they were then living.

CHAPTER 12

Billy Bray, 1852.

After the events narrated in Chapter 10, and when all the people who dwelt on the hill on which the church was built were converted, there came upon the scene a very remarkable person, who had evidently been kept back for a purpose.  This was none other than the veritable and well known “Billy Bray."* One morning, while we were sitting at breakfast, I heard some one walking about in the hall with a heavy step, saying, “Praise the Lord!  Praise the Lord!” On opening the door, I beheld a happy-looking little man, in a black Quaker-cut coat, which it was very evident had not been made for him, but for some much larger body.  “Well, my friend,” I said, “who are you?”

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* See “The King’s Son; or, Life of Billy Bray,” by F. W. Bourne.
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“I am Billy Bray,” he replied, looking steadily at me with his twinkling eyes; “and be you the parson?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Thank the Lord!  Converted, are ye?”

“Yes, thank God.”

“And the missus inside” (pointing to the dining-room), “be she converted?”

“Yes, she is.”

“Thank the dear Lord!” he said, moving forward.

I made way for him, and he came stepping into the room; then making a profound bow to the said “missus,” he asked, “Be there any maidens (servants)?”

“Yes, there are three in the kitchen.”

“Be they converted too?”

I was able to answer in the affirmative; and as I pointed towards the kitchen door when I mentioned it, he made off in that direction, and soon we heard them all shouting and praising God together.  When we went in, there was Billy Bray, very joyful, singing,