“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.”