“Yes, Massa. Yaller Jack, break bone, intermittent, remittent, congestive, typhoid, small pox—”
“I reckon you have then,” returned the doctor. “Where were you raised?”
“New Orleans, Massa.”
“Ever worked in the charity hospital there?”
“Law me, Massa, I has so!”
Doctor Hoff looked satisfied, and after giving careful directions left, promising to come the next day.
Needless to dwell on the anxious weeks to follow. Reuben never left his post, faithfully recording every symptom even when others would gladly have relieved him. His black lips were almost constantly moving in prayer and who shall say that they did not penetrate to the “Throne of Grace.” At last the change came and when Doctor Hoff paid his next visit, he grasped those black hands and in a tone of profound respect said: “Reuben, your master will live and you, not I, have saved his life.”
Falling on his knees, Reuben poured forth his soul in an earnest prayer. Unconsciously, the doctor knelt beside him, bowing his head on those faithful black shoulders, and the man of science and the descendant of Ham were one in the presence of their Maker. A silence as of death followed and then a voice low and sweet, but trembling with emotion, came from the doorway:
“On Christ, the solid rock, I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.”