Before he left us, he made a particular inquiry about the two other houses which had been built, who lived in them, and especially if all the “dwellers were converted.”  Then he declared his intention to go and see the parties, and rejoice with them, and testify how fully the Lord had accomplished the promise He gave him upon that very hill, twenty years before.

According to promise, I went to Billy Bray’s preaching-house, or mission-hall.  It was the first time that I had preached anywhere outside my church and schoolroom since my conversion.  There it pleased the Lord to give me much help, and a great work followed, such as Billy had never seen in that place before.  Several times we were detained there all night through, with penitents crying aloud for mercy, and believers rejoicing.

As a rule, the Cornish man would remain at a meeting for hours, and come again the next day, and the day after, if needful, till he felt that he could cry for mercy, and then he would begin and continue crying until he felt he could believe.

At the conclusion of these services we returned to the schoolroom, where our meetings were continued.

Our friend Billy remained with us at Baldhu, and was very useful.  He spoke in the schoolroom with much acceptance and power in the simplicity of his faith, and souls were added to the Lord continually.

At this time he was very anxious for a cousin of his, a man somewhat older than himself, of the same name.  This Billy was as famous for his drunkenness and dissolute habits, as the other Billy was for his faith and joy.  The former used to go by the name of the “lost soul.”  The very children in the lanes called after him, “Ah, Billy, you are a lost soul,” and laughed at him.  I was then in the freshness and power of my first love, and could not help regarding this pitiable object, and considering his case; for I could not imagine why any man should remain unsaved and without Christ.

Accordingly, one wet morning, when I felt pretty sure that old Billy would not be out working in the field, I made my way down to his house.  As I expected, he was at home in his chimney comer; so setting down my dripping umbrella, I told him how glad I was to find him there, for I wanted to have a talk with him.

“Ah, it’s all very well for you gentlemen, who have none else to do but to go about and talk; but we poor men must work.”  So saying, he rose up from his “settle” and went to the door.

“But, Billy, it is raining quite hard; you cannot work in rain like that.”

“Can’t help it; we must do our work,” and so he slammed the door after him and departed.

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.