"Well, I don't know, sir," replied Bob, doubtfully. "I don't know but what I think there is something in it?"
"Stuff! Bob, how kin there be? Do you mean that she made out 'at she could cure anything by just talking to you?"
"Not exactly; no sir. Her p'int is that what we call biles or malaria, or—"
"Bow-legs, mebbe," put in Mr. Cinch both jocosely and ruefully.
"Yes, sir, bow-legs."
"What!"
"Bow-legs, too—why not? Just as easy bow-legs as biles."
"Well, go on."
"All such things, she says, is appearances. Our souls being sick, they look through our eyes in a sorter cock-eyed way and see something they call a bile or a pair of bow-legs. The bile and the bow-legs aint really there, you know; we only think so, which is just as bad as if they was there. If we was to go to her and get our souls well, we'd look out of our eyes straight and wouldn't see no bile or bow-legs. Neither would nobody else. This is the best explaining I can do, sir. I understands it pretty well, but I can't talk it. She's a daisy talker, though. She can talk like a dictionary."
"Bob," said Mr. Cinch, solemnly, "do you mean to tell me that this young woman can talk me into believing that I aint got bow-legs?"