"Oh," said Peggy, "there is, mister. Yer soul or yer heart, 'tis all the same. You said 'twas sick. There be a deal o' folks with sick souls I've heerd tell, and there be no medicine for 'em that you can buy, for Jesus Christ don't mean 'em to be cured by anybody but Hisself. Now, who's a-takin' care o' yer soul, mister?"
"Myself," answered the old man promptly. "'Tis my business, and no one else's."
"You'll make a very bad job of it," said Peggy, shaking her head at him. "I 'spect it wants a gran' clean-up inside, like this here room that I've done so fine. Seems to me," she went on dreamily, "that souls be very like rooms. They ain't fit to live in till the Lord comes along and turns 'em clean inside out; gets rid o' the rubbish and dusts and tidies 'em proper. Even then, if He's to live in 'em, I 'spect He finds 'em wantin' a clean, and dustin' every day. There be always such a lot o' dirt and dust and rubbish in at the doors and windows, and if He misses one day, I daresay they gets in a pretty mess."
"You be a strange little maid," said Job; "I can't foller the argyment!"
"I'm only telling yer the way to get yer soul made well and happy," repeated Peggy. "If you has Jesus a-livin' in it, you'll feel awful well."
The entrance of Bill stopped further discussion. He looked at Peggy with a pleased smile.
"You do be a neat-handed maid," he remarked. "How you do hearten up our place!"
"'Tis you that untidies it after I goes," said Peggy, with her chin in the air. "I never can make out what you does to get the place so muddly."
She always gave herself airs with Bill; he seemed so big and clumsy that she lost patience with him. He now stood in the middle of the room, with his mouth partly open, rumpling his shock of thick hair with his big hands.
"We oughter have womankind to set us to rights, and to keep us there," he murmured.