To-day, as he saw the Bishop ride up, he thought of his boyhood days, and of Tom Travis. How often had they gone with the old man hunting and fishing! How he reverenced the memory of his gentleness and kindness! The greatest desire of Hillard Watts had been to reform Edward Conway. He had prayed for him, worked for him. In spite of his drunkenness the old man believed in him. "God'll save him yet," he would say. "I've prayed for it an' I kno' it--tho' it may be by the crushing of him. Some men repent to God's smile, some to His frown, and some to His fist. I'm afraid it will take a blow to save Ned, po' boy." For Ned was always a boy to him. Conway was drunker than usual to-day. Things grew worse daily, and he drank deeper. It is one of the strangest curses of whiskey that as it daily drags a man down, deeper and deeper, it makes him believe he must cling to his Red God the closer. He met the old overseer cordially, in a half drunken endeavor to be natural. The old man glanced sadly up at the bloated, boastful face, and thought of the beautiful one it once had been. He thought of the fine, brilliant mind and marveled that with ten years of drunkenness it still retained its strength. And the Bishop remembered that in spite of his drinking no one had ever accused Edward Conway of doing a dishonorable thing. "How strong is that man's character rooted for good," he thought, "when even whiskey cannot undermine it." "Where are the babies, Ned?" he asked, after he was seated. The father called and the two girls came running out. The old man was struck with the developing beauty of Helen--he had not seen her for a year. Lily hunted in his pockets for candy, as she had always done--and found it--and Helen--though eighteen and grown, sat thoughtful and sad, on a stool by his side. The old man did not wonder at her sadness. "Ned," he said, as he stroked Helen's hand, "this girl looks mo' like her mother every day, an' you know she was the handsomest woman that ever was raised in the Valley." Conway took his pipe out of his mouth. He dropped his head and looked toward the distant blue hills. What Memory and Remorse were whispering to him the old man could only guess. Silently--nodding--he sat and looked and spoke not. "She ain't gwineter be a bit prettier than my little Lil, when she gits grown," said a voice behind them. It was Mammy Maria who, as usual, having dressed the little girl as daintily as she could, stood nearby to see that no harm befell her. "Wal, Aunt Maria," drawled the Bishop. "Whar did you come from? I declar' it looks like ole times to see you agin'." There is something peculiar in this, that those unlettered, having once associated closely with negroes, drop into their dialect when speaking to them. Perhaps it may be explained by some law of language--some rule of euphony, now unknown. The Bishop unconsciously did this; and, from dialect alone, one could not tell which was white and which was black.