“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. CHAPTER XII |JERRY BLACK'S house was beyond Hickory Mountain, in the direction of the far-off lumber mills. It was afternoon before the doctor returned. He rode hard in anger. He had gone on to Black's house, determined to make the old man pay him for his visit. But the mountaineer, now that his eye was healed, had refused. The doctor stormed and threatened, but the mountaineer was obdurate. The School-teacher had cured him. He owed nothing. He would pay nothing. The doctor was compelled to return empty-handed, and he rode hard.