"I mean, when he grows up will he be as strong--and--and bright as other men?" "That is impossible to answer, Mrs. Connor, without the gift of prophecy." "Don't put me off," said she staring at him, "tell me the truth. I have a right to know." "I should first have to have a little more definite knowledge of his antecedents, his family history. Is there anything which might explain--" "Not on our side of the family," Mrs. Talbot interrupted quickly, "they're clean people, every one." "His father," said Georgia, "is a drunkard and the son of a drunkard." "In that case it is possible, mind you I only say possible, that he has inherited a--a nervous tendency." "Inherited, ah, I knew. There was something in me that warned me steadily not to go back to him. Something that made me shudder to think of it. But at last I gave in, because everyone in the world seemed in a conspiracy to make me." "Yes," the doctor answered drily, "we run into such histories frequently." "But," she pleaded suppliantly, as if he had the power to do or undo, "surely my baby can grow out of this--nervous tendency. Tell me he can grow out of it. With the right care and training, surely he can grow out of it." He placed his hand on her shoulder, and honesty seemed to her to be patent and apparent in his voice. "Yes," he said, "it is possible, it is probable. I have seen many a mother make her child over with love." "Ah, that's all I want," she gave a happy little sigh, "for I can do what they have done." There was a tap at the door. Mrs. Talbot opened it and Father Hervey came in. "Oh," she said, "Father, the baby's well again. I shouldn't have bothered you." "I'm glad for once it's an occasion for rejoicing," he said quietly. "Good morning, doctor." "Good morning, Father. Was the poor fellow long after I left?" "About half an hour." "Were you at a deathbed last night, you two?" asked Georgia. "Yes, Georgia, we were," said the priest. "It seems somehow strange," she pondered, "that you two, so different, should be called together at the end." "Oh, it happens often enough," explained the doctor. "Poor people. They want to keep them here a little longer, and the priest to bid them Godspeed in case they've got to go." "It must be terrible," reflected Mrs. Talbot, "to die without a priest." "Yes," answered the doctor, "Catholics have the best of us there. They always go hopefully, and they're the only ones that do. I've sometimes wished that I could accept the faith, but--" he shook his head slowly. "Why can't you?" said Georgia quickly. Father Hervey smiled. He and the doctor were trusted friends. There was no poaching on each other's preserves. "Do you honestly believe in a future life?" she asked again, staring at the man of science with her peculiar little wide-eyed stare. "Yes, I believe all of us here will probably have it--except perhaps Father Hervey."