A book that for a month, Harry had been trying to read, was lying where
he had dropped it to answer a call. While he hesitated, the old negro
came shuffling in with the doctor's smoking jacket and slippers.
"Yes sah, here dey is--an' de mare's all right--ain't hurted a
bit--takin' her feed like er good one. Oh, I tell yo' der ain't no betta
on de road dan her."
Dr. Harry laughed. "Uncle George, I give you my honest professional
opinion--Mother Eve was sure a brunette." As he spoke he slipped out of
his coat and Mam Liz took it from his hand, while Uncle George helped
him into the comfortable jacket.
"He--he--he--" chuckled the old servant. "A brunette, he--he. That air's
yo Liz, ol' 'oman, yo' sho brunette. Yes sah, 'pon my word, Mars Harry,
I believe yo'. He--he--"
And the black woman's deep voice rolled out--"Yo' go on now--yo' two,
'tain't so--'cause Adam he sho po'r white trash. Ain't no decent colored
body goin' to have no truck wid sech as him."
With the doctor's shoes in his hand the old servant stood up, "Anythin'
else, sah? No? Good night, sah! Good night, Mars Harry!" They slipped
noiselessly from the room.
Is there, after all, anything more beautiful in life than the ministry
of such humble ones, whose service is the only expression of their love?
Many of the Master's truths have been shamefully neglected by those into
whose hands they were committed. Many of His grandest lessons are ignored
by His disciples, who ambitious for place and power--quarrel among
themselves.
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