when she did go and found the boy in agony walking the floor, she gently and sympathetically questioned him.
“Dorr, will you let me heal that felon?”
“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Patterson, if you can do it,” replied the lad.
“Will you promise not to do anything for it or let any one else, if I undertake to cure it?”
“Yes, I promise, and I will keep my word,” said Dorr Phillips. He had heard his father and their friend discuss divine healing many times, and had a boy’s healthy curiosity to see what would happen if all this talk was actually tried on a wicked, tormenting, festering felon that was making him fairly roar with rage one minute and cry like a girl the next.
That night the boy stopped at his sister Susie’s house. “How is your finger,” she asked solicitously.
“Nothing the matter with my finger; it has n’t hurt all day. Mrs. Patterson is treating it.”
“What is she doing to it? Let me look at it.”
“No, you’ll spoil the cure. I promised not to look at it or think about it, nor let any one else touch it or talk about it. And I won't.”
The brother and sister looked at each other with half smiles. They were struggling with skepticism.
“Honest, Dorr, don’t it hurt?”
“No.”
“Tell me what she did.”
“T don’t know what she did, don’t know anything
