ON SATURDAY morning the miller hailed the doctor as he was passing the mill.

“Are you goin' over to Black's?” she called.

The doctor stopped his horse.

“Yes,” he said, “they sent me word to come.”

“By Jonas the first of the week?”

“Yes.”

“For to see old Jerry's eye?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it ain't no use for you to go.”

“Did his eye get well of itself?” inquired the doctor.

“No, it didn't git well of itself,” replied the woman. “It never would have got well of itself. Ole Jerry's been set-tin' around with that eye tied up ever since the day that he thrashed out his wheat. He'd a-been blind in it all the rest of his life if it hadn't a-been for the School-teacher.”

The doctor turned around in his saddle.

“What did the School-teacher do to him?” he said.

“He cured him,” replied the miller.

The doctor had ridden past the mill before he stopped. Now he rode hack. The miller stood on the porch before the door. The doctor sat on his horse in the road, the loose bridle rein over his crooked arm, his good hand resting heavily on the pommel of the saddle.

“How did he cure him?” inquired the doctor.

“I don't know how he cured him,” replied the miller.

“Didn't you hear?” said the doctor.

“Yes, I heard,” replied the miller.

“Well,” said the doctor, “what did you hear?”

“I heard that he took ole Jerry to one side an' he asked him if he could see anything with that eye. An' ole Jerry said that he couldn't tell a man from a tree with it. Then the School-teacher put his hands on his eye, an' he made him look up an' and when the School-teacher got through ole Jerry could see. But he complained that his eye felt hot an' the School-teacher told him to hold a piece of wet clay against it—you know' that's awful good to draw out soreness—an' the next morning ole Jerry's eye was well. Now, how do you suppose he done it?”

“I don't suppose how he done 't,” replied the doctor. “I know how he done it. Ole Jerry got a wheat husk in that eye when he was thrashing, and it stuck against the lid back of the ball. The fools that looked into his eye by pushing the lid up couldn't see it. But when anybody come along with sense enough to turn the lid back he got the husk out and the eye got well.”

The miller crumpled the corner of her apron in her hand.

“I don't know about that,” she said. “D'd you hear how the School-teacher cured Sol Shreave's shoulder that he smashed in his clearing?”

“Yes, I heard it,” replied the doctor. “I was pretty apt to hear it.”

“Well, what did you think about that?” said the miller.

“I thought it was a piece of meddling with my practice,” replied the doctor. “It kept me out of a five-dollar fee.”

“But it was wonderful,” said the miller.

“No, it wasn't wonderful,” replied the doctor.

The miller spoke slowly. She nodded her head between each word.

“To cure a man's shoulder that was smashed, just by takin' hold of his arm, wouldn't that be a wonder?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “that would be a hell of a wonder,”

“Well,” said the woman, “didn't the School-teacher do it?”

“No, he didn't do it,” replied the doctor. “Then you don't think 't's so, about the School-teacher fixin' Sol's shoulder?”

“Yes, I know it's so,” replied the doctor.

“Then what makes you say it ain't a wonder?”

“Because it's a thing; anybody could do,” replied the doctor.

“Charm a smashed shoulder well?”

“No,” replied the doctor, “rotate a dislocated joint into place. When Sol Shreave caught his ax in the grapevine he twisted the ball on the big hone of his arm out of the socket of the shoulder, and when the School-teacher took hold of his arm and rotated it around in the right way it went back into place.”

The miller crossed her hands over her apron. She took hold of the palm of her left with the fingers of her right. She gave her head a little jerk. Her eyebrows contracted.

“I don't know about that,” she said.

She remained for a moment looking down at the mill porch, then she looked up.

“Doctor,” she said, “did you ever hear of anybody that was dead bein' brought back to life?”

“Yes,” said the doctor, “I have heard of it ever since I could remember.”

“Then it has happened?”

“No,” said the doctor. “It never has happened. When you're dead, you're dead.”

The doctor took a watch out of his pocket. It was a heavy, old, silver watch, tied to his waistcoat buttonhole with a buckskin string. He opened it, examined it for a moment, then snapped the lid and thrust it back into his pocket. When he looked around the miller was standing in the roadside beside the horse.

“Doctor,” she said, “I'm a-goin' to tell you somethin' that I never told anybody.”

“What about?” said the doctor.

“About what I've just said,” replied the woman.

The doctor reflected for an instant, then he remembered. He shifted his position in the saddle. His voice showed annoyance.

“What cock-an'-bull story have you got a-hold of now?” he said.

“It's no cock-an'-bull story,” replied the miller. “It's the God's truth.”

The doctor made a deprecating gesture with his crooked arm.

“Now, look here, Sal,” lie said, “I haven't time to listen to all the tales you've heard.”

“It ain't anything I've heard,” replied the miller.

“What is it, then?”

“It's something I saw.”

“Did you see it yourself?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Now, Sal,” said the doctor, “don't begin to tell me something you thought you saw.”

“I'm not a-goin' to tell you somethin' that I thought I saw. I'm a-goin' to tell you something that I did see.”

“All right,” said the doctor, “go on and tell it. What did you see?”

The woman drew a little closer.

“Well,” she said, “one Saturday the School-teacher come down here to help me, an' he brought Mary Jane's little boy with him. He's awful little. He ain't two yet. The School-teacher left him with me while he went down under the mill to fix one of the wheel paddles. Well, Martha was gone an' there was nobody here but me to 'tend things. An' I got to movin' around and forgot the little boy. An' when I went to look for him—I hope I may die!—if he wasn't a-layin' drown-ded at the bottom of the millrace. Lord-amighty! I was crazy. I jumped in an' got him out, an' begun to holler for the School-teacher to come. But he was dead. I knowed he was dead. His little lips was blue, an' his poor little hands was cold.”

The tears came into the woman's eyes at the memory.

“Lordy, Lordy!” she said, “I knowed he was all that Mary Jane had in the world. I knowed her soul was wrapped up in him. I knowed it would kill her.”

The woman stopped and wiped her eyes with her apron.

“Well, the School-teacher come a-run-nin' an' took him out of my arms, an' carried him into the house. An' I just stood there in the road like I was dazed. But after a while I sort a come to myself, an' I tiptoed up on the porch, an' I looked in the door. An' the little boy was layin' on the bed, an' the School-teacher was a-bendin' over him. Then I thought of Mary Jane again. An' Lord-a'-mighty! I thought I'd die. I went down off the porch. An' I reckon I was crazy, because I started out, an' I run just as hard as I could right up the road. I reckon I run for half a mile. Then I thought I heard the School-teacher callin' me. An' I come hack with my apron over my head a-cryin'. An' when I got right here in the road, I did hear him, an' he said, 'Don't be distressed, for the child's all right.' An' I took my apron off my head, an' I looked in the door, an' there set the School-teacher by the stove with the little boy wrapped in a blanket—an' he was alive.”

The woman stopped, lifted her shoulders, and took in a deep breath, like one who has concluded a violent exertion. She wiped her face with her apron.

“Well, he told me to make haste, an' dry out the little boy's clothes—he had nice, little, white clothes, Mary Jane's awful particular about him—an' I did, an' I ironed them so they'd be just like they was before he fell in. Then we put the clothes back on him. An' the Schoolteacher took him home. An' he was just as well as he was before he was drownded. An' the School-teacher told me not to tell anybody. I suppose he didn't want Mary Jane to find it out. It would only distress her for nothing.”

The woman folded her arms across her bosom, and looked up at the doctor.

“Now, then?” she said.

The doctor sat back in his saddle. He dropped his crooked arm by his side. He addressed the woman, speaking with a perceptible pause between each word.

“So you thought he raised the dead, did you?”

“Didn't I see him do it?” replied the woman.

“Well,” said the doctor, “if you're that big a fool, there's no use to talk to you.”

He turned around in the saddle, gath-tred up the reins, and kicked the horse with his heel. He passed out of sight in the direction of Jerry Black's house. The miller remained standing in the road.