Man may breed up all animals but himself. Strive as he may, the laws of heredity are hidden. "Like produces like or the likeness of an ancestor" is the unalterable law of the lower animal. Not so with man--he is a strange anomaly. Breed him up--up--and then from his high breeding will come reversion. From pedigrees and plumed hats and ruffled shirts come not men, but pygmies--things which in the real fight of life are but mice to the eagles which have come up from the soil with the grit of it in their craws and the strength of it in their talons. We stop in wonder--balked. Then we see that we cannot breed men--they are born; not in castles, but in cabins. And why in cabins? For therein must be the solution. And the solution is plain: It is work--work that does it. We cannot breed men unless work--achievement--goes with it. From the loins of great horses come greater horses; for the pedigree of work--achievement--is there. Unlike man, the race-horse is kept from degeneracy by work. Each colt that comes must add achievement to pedigree when he faces the starter, or he goes to the shambles or the surgeon. Why may not man learn this simple lesson--the lesson of work--of pedigree, but the pedigree of achievement? The son who would surpass his father must do more than his father did. Two generations of idleness will beget nonentities, and three, degenerates. The preacher, the philosopher, the poet, the ruler--it matters not what his name--he who first solves the problem of how to keep mankind achieving will solve the problem of humanity. And now to Helen Conway for the first time in her life this simple thing was happening--she was working--she was earning--she was supporting herself and Lily and her father. Not only that, but gradually she was learning to know what the love of one like Clay meant--unselfish, devoted, true. If to every tempted woman in the world could be given work, and to work achievement, and to achievement independence, there would be few fallen ones. All the next week Helen went to the mill early--she wanted to go. She wanted to earn more money and keep Lily out of the mill. And she went with a light heart, because for the first time in her life since she could remember, her father was sober. Helen's earnings changed even him. There was something so noble in her efforts that it uplifted even the drunkard. In mingled shame and pride he thought it out: Supported by his daughter--in a mill and such a daughter! He arose from it all white-lipped with resolve: "_I will be a Conway again!_" He said it over and over. He swore it. It is true he was not entirely free from that sickening, sour, accursed smell with which she had associated him all her life. But that he was himself, that he was making an earnest effort, she knew by his neatly brushed clothes, his clean linen, his freshly shaved face, his whole attire which betokened the former gentleman. "How handsome he must have been when he was once a Conway!" thought Helen.