"Do I? Every man has a chance who trusts God an' prays. You can't down that man. Your people were men--brave an' honest men. They conquered themselves first, an' all this fair valley afterwards. They overcame greater obstacles than you ever had, an' in bringin' you into the world they gave you, by the very laws of heredity, the power to overcome, too. Why do you grasp at the shadow an' shy at the form? You keep these hound dogs here, because your father rode to hounds. But he rode for pleasure, in the lap of plenty, that he had made by hard licks. You ride, from habit, in poverty. He rode his hobbies--it was all right. Your hobbies ride you. He fought chickens for an hour's pastime, in the fullness of the red blood of life. You fight them for the blood of the thing--as the bred-out Spaniards fight bulls. He took his cocktails as a gentleman--you as a drunkard." The old man was excited, indignant, fearless. Conway looked at him in wonder akin to fear. Even as the idolaters of old looked at Jeremiah and Isaiah. "Why--why is it"--went on the old man earnestly, rising and shaking his finger ominously--"that two generations of cocktails will breed cock-fighters, and two generations of whiskey will breed a scrub? Do you know where you'll end? In bein' a scrub? No, no--you will be dead an' the worms will have et you--but"--he pointed to the house--"you are fixin' to make scrubs of them--they will breed back. "Go back to the plough--quit this whiskey and be the man your people was. If you do not," he said rising to go--"God will crush you--not kill you, but mangle you in the killin'." "He has done that already," said Conway bitterly. "He has turned the back of His hand on me." "Not yet"--said the Bishop--"but it will fall and fall there." He pointed to Helen, whose queenly head could be seen in the old parlor as she trummed out a sad love song. Conway blanched and his hand shook. He felt a nameless fear--never felt before. He looked around, but the old man was gone. Afterwards, as he remembered that afternoon, he wondered if, grown as the old man had in faith, God had not also endowed him with the gift of prophecy. CHAPTER XVI HELEN'S DESPAIR An hour afterward, the old nurse found Helen at the piano, her head bowed low over the old yellow keys. "It's gittin' t'wards dinner time, chile," she said tenderly, "an' time I was dressin' my queen gal for dinner an sendin' her out to get roses in her cheeks." "Oh, Mammy, don't--don't dress me that way any more. I am--I am to be--after this--just a mill girl, you know?" There was a sob and her head sank lower over the piano. "You may be for a while, but you'll always be a Conway"--and the old woman struck an attitude with her arms akimbo and stood looking at the portraits which hung on the parlor wall.